In the hush of night, my solitude's embrace,
"The voice of inside demons," poetry's grace.
Louder they echo, than the bustling throng,
Amidst the traffic, their chant prolongs.
Loneliness, they call it in the world's keen tongue,
Yet in verse, it's demons' resonance, far-flung.
Their whispers, a tempest, drown the outside din,
Inside my soul, the turbulent spin.
Amid the crowd, their chorus resounds clear,
A haunting melody, only I can hear.
They paint loneliness with shades unseen,
The inside demons, a tumult, keen.
So, in the midst of life's bustling tide,
My solitude whispers, those demons reside.
"Loneliness," they say in the world's refrain,
In poetry's verse, their echo remains.
