When water is less fluid than bone
and clockwise hands hold us
in stillborn air, we pool together
daily, pump parts into place:
a smile; a laugh; an I'm-okay-really mask.
We have always excelled at pretence.
It removes the taint of a buried
life, filters the sting -
allows others to breathe us without
suffocation, without that need
to understand.
[ Or to touch the pain of actual
understanding. ]
We do not blame them - reserving
all judgement for self-indulgence,
for we are all bad poetry.
When everything is black, voices
curse these eyes for failing
to see
and we are accused of silence when it
is only our skin screaming, drowning
us away.
We are separated in the company of others.
By the contrast of missing flesh. Experience.
This broken doll, with smile fixed and eyes
glazed over-
its glossy hollow skin cannot contain
us as we spill,
a five o’clock shadow cast at midnight.
Adding your comment:
Magnificent penning, my Friend. Such profound wisdom within these lines. Good luck in Lane's contest, Sweetie. 