“Man’s inability to sit still”

Within the bough of every chair,  
A restless current stirs the air—  
The shifting foot, the tapping hand,  
The mind adrift from where we stand.  

Behold the body’s subtle ache  
To move, to rustle, to partake  
In errands spun from unseen thread,  
Though all the world says, “Rest your head.”  

We chart the stars, we chase the bee,  
We fidget in philosophy.  
The ticking clock, the spinning pen—  
We rise, we pace, we sit again.  

A sparrow flits from branch to wire,  
A restless soul of small desire;  
We are no different, heart or bone—  
Unsettled seeds forever sown.  

For silence thunders, vast and wild,  
And every man, in truth, a child  
Who wriggles from the calm and mild,  
And stirs the stillness, reconciled.  

Oh, peace eludes; the journey calls—  
Upon stone floors, in hallowed halls,  
The chair invites, yet we rebel—  
Forever roaming in our shell.  

Such is our plight: to move, to yearn—  
To seek, to tarry, twist, and turn.  
Stillness, a prize just out of reach—  
We sit, we wait, then up—and breach.

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