Blank Face

The smile slips just a bit after days
after I ply for another side of the truth you insisted in between sips of
coffee in the morning; before heading out the door to brunch with girlfriends;
tying up your hair before work
the corners of your mouth turn with worry, a dossier tucked away in between
files of innocuous letters to blend in with the sugar coating
a nervous biting of the lower lips and the cloud of uncertainty, or reality being
unearthed in this forest floor between us
the shovel hits the dirt; I watch and wait from the canopy as you
resist opening up – I coax for good measure
“is this what you wanted? Are you happy?”
Your eyes are warm and your smile
is what gave my stomach the ol’ swift kick
(don’t worry about me champ/this is as good as it gets/I’ll catch up to you all but not
really because this path leads to oblivion and I’m holding about three candles for the
the endless dark and when they snuff out)
the honesty in the silence is the second shot aimed true for all but lack of
brutal consideration – the chloroform before the guillotine
and here is where the selective reasoning of the plug being pulled in the midst
of the wilted flowers propped up by the hope that you’re wrong, so the smile
says
the cage door gilded with empty-road promises is what keeps it locked
the freedom passes through the bars as air for you to breathe but never
take fully into your lungs
I believe you, only because the cage is built large enough for me to stand
beside you

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Lord Bison

Jazz-soaked spirit running circles around despair...or something like that. Really. Lover of words, lover of being in worlds free...just...free. New Yorker, artist, Virgo besieged by airhead tendencies akin to Libra moves. Bronx is home base. Began an obsession with writing at seven and twenty-odd years hence, still at it. Enjoy/love/hate/be bored/appreciate to your heart's content. Or something like that. http://www.lbisonartist.com

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