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.
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.
You’ve got the heat of a lion vigorously pulsating bravery through your body as you stand up, not ignorant of the talk that flies above dive bombing into your skin trying to tear off tiny pieces of you until there is nothing left for even the vultures themselves, but you’ve got the heart of a lion, making sure that your vision stays clear keeping tears from your eyes and using the salt rather to thicken your skin, beautifying, invisibly scaring you, marking you with a confidence that is felt, and it feels like silk, expertly crafted from the finest of material and sewn together in a stitch that can never be undone and eventually it doesn’t seem to matter what they say.