Play tunes
to cover the din
of all your voices
endless noises,
worldy chatter;
uninterested questions,
insincere replies
yet, not one of so many,
innumerable actually, can answer the Why
of a soul's soundless Sigh
and ultimate relief,
how,
in utter solitude
with a day-old loaf
and bottled fruit juice for company,
the heart is finally at peace
under the shade
of a leafless old pine,
burnt down by some adventurer
God knows how long ago...

Alone, at last
with myself.

Free to be me.
Or just free to be.
That's quitude.