I have not
looked
in-
to
another's face for twenty years.
Oh, I have pretend-
ed,
been convincingly mock-bogus inti-
mate.
I knew it was import-
ant.
If one would have friends, a love, one
must
portray the genuine, provide a glimpse of
SELF.
One must attempt to
bond.
It was a feint,
a dark glass aping the unblemished
but opaque
and smothered by smutty-finger-greasy dust –
should
I
mention holocaust? Would that be gauche?
Quaint?
Would it draw condemnation and complaint?
Of course it
must.
It always does.
And if one with courage came along,
looked beyond
to where disturbing, leering, cavorting filth
thrived,
devilishly whirling dervished on
(no hell
more lurid than the one
within) –
they would of necessity, quickly
abscond.
...
I had not looked into another face
for
twenty years... More...
perhaps
thirty? Perhaps...
...
And yet I cannot stop looking at you.
YOU ARE READING
Borealis Love
PoetryLove - what does that word mean, what does it comprise? Do we always recognise it when faced with it? Do we value it when we ought to do so? Do we squander it when it is too easily given? Do we ever understand until it has left us and we are left to...
