The silent stare

The silent stare.

The cordite grained stained mirror reflects my naked soul.
It recalls those spliced years of drunken folly;
Of complex patterned plump fed rages,
Of time spent unaware.
Or aware and wanting to deny…
The seasons change…the buds bloom,
The Roses shine, these rich red blossoms
burst forth their sweet and delicate sacred fragrance
and then are burnt to cinders .
Laid to waste by fire yellow crimson and sweet with the taste of desire.

Flashback.
A punch to the stomach!
A kick to the face!
A teachers “kind and gentle” hands retrace… and mar…
While stony faced parents look sadly at their disappointment.

The shops slide into my mind.
A waterfall of cascading iridescent images,
As faceless people float about the clothes aisle.
Murmuring changing shapes from gusset to bra.
Where throbbing needs are met in sweaty flesh.

And then she walks by.
Her eyes shine,
And meet mine,
Our hands that never meant to touch, stroke so very tenderly
connecting for a second, then lost… as she slowly turns away.

That Mirror.
I spend days looking wondering whether the pain will ever leave.
I smile… noting the new lines,
The new slender me, gaping back,
while stomach burning stinging tingling pain
Reminds me of the fragility of our custodianship to this cellular existence.
“We are the Lords of our lives!”
I hear the pious man in the pulpit cry.
I try not to laugh.
He sees my smile and scowls…
I don’t care. I’m sure that one day, he’ll get the joke.

Cpy adh2011