Nods of Confusion

In circles of chatter, I nod and I grin,

pretending to grasp all the thoughts tucked within.

Philosophers speak, but their words feel like fog,

a maze of ideas, a dog chasing its log.

The titles surround me, like walls of a book,

promising insight, but I can’t get a hook.

My smile wears thin, though I try to conform,

adrift in the currents, a lost little storm.

Yet I weave through the chatter, a thread in the night,

knowing somewhere in silence, it’s okay not to fight.