Solitude

The noise is just too much,

the conversation far too fickle;

like the food the air is stale,

and the curious gazes start to prickle.

So it’s back to my familiar crutch,

to get away from so much mickle,

more designed than a simple bail;

a space refined without a strickle.

To you a meager hutch,

where the light does naught but trickle,

but it’s a shelter against the gale;

my old castle against your sickles.

Maybe it’s just a different clutch,

an exile you may claim and stickle,

yet that’s a ship I’ll gladly sail,

and the ticket didn’t cost a nickel.