It is hard to believe that

we are the occasion

for this pageantry,

this crescendo,

these smiles and makeup and grand

gestures,

all this effort,

this art.

Broken and rough–

we don’t seem to be

the final version

of anything,

whisking around

our scrambled

brains,

steam rising

from our milk hearts.

At our center are

unknown substances.

 

2 comments

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s