Furrowed chagrin colors my face
streaming profusely, still yet to be
streamlined as rough, unidentified edges
bound and actively define the
tunnels cut through tears that salt
and erode, once dimples, making stale
my favorite smile.
Occasionally I will pantomime my dreams, accidentally,
into a mistaken reality wherein I am a dreamer
but more than that I am me, undeniably so. My hands are
spurned, driven mad, up and down as they burn scribbled
charades into the air and then suspend them; as if
my actions alone brought them to life. Seconds pass
and they live half-lives with no voice, rather my breathing beats
air into their lack of physical being and provides them with heart.
Heart enough for millions from one barely enough for me and it
will forever beat, until my real charade is given voice by another.
I declare a prohibition, to
ban the way we contest change,
dry up currently whetted appetites
that hunger for war, conflicting,
pedestrian ideas and ideals
promoting each other’s assumed lesser.
Backlash burns silently
smoldering, tears blind those
already living without sight, mixing
tears mix with the heat of untouched friction of words
rubbing-together, concocting a chemical cleanse
aggravating all the senses.
The stolen sunlight trickles down
simmering on our placid faces
wisps releasing silent steam hang
our time together, frozen as
dew on the pine trees whose
slender fingers tie the our cords
into a hang-mans knot, criminal only
of stealing days punishable by being
noosed for the rest of the night.
Speaking through muted syllables anonymous and lethargic so that they rest on the mic, un-able to expound and reverberate throughout a room, un-willing to lengthen each syllable and to cut off the no-ise that erupts from the murmuring onlookers who hear no-thing of me and rather listen to the sound of my abacus sweat dropping to the ground numbering the seconds until I find a voice.