Blatant faces turned into ashy stone.
Whiskers sharp as course spinney quills.
Peaking around with ego harnessed eyes.
Pretenses always linger here.
Seems we stoke them far to much…
As their insincerity grows deep
lashing at the empty spaces we know;
Where time gave dyslexia absence
and hatred rolled inside their mind;
Thoughts trying to keep secrets… purged
pointing boney fatuitous fingers outward…
The questions are not important really.
The statements masking are not either.
It is all a matter of dysfunctional prodding;
Each day wishing to ride a pedestals cushion
or the royal mounts of high horses in velvet.
We know why we like the comforts perceived…
We have touched…We have seen…tasted…
But simplistic always holds the rug shags.
Placing …or shaking… or mending frays.
If the filters are placed in tactful pins
cupped where they belong breasting purpose,
inside the lid where heat turns cumbrous
and the soiled grounds are left vacantly still;
Nestled in their grinders capsular tube sharpened
they will remain undisturbed as threshing grains…
But ambition's sheath is immediately blindfolded
as the hot droplets of water steeply brew turmoil.
Those unnecessary elements honed in on intention;
Sighting superiority as forgetfulness crops memories.
And the empty spaces become invisibly seen
somehow without any notice of sparse absence…
Lament sounds couldn’t even recognize loneliness;
That echoic hollow…passive contemplations
where silence offers pretenses like swarms mazing.
Undulant within the emotional vacancy…unseen quietism
with chaotic warrants arriving…never mulled into leaving…
or worse yet…staying in deafness….
(Written: July 22nd 2010 7:35 a/m)
© Poetess Victoira L. McColley