The slightest shift in tenor
Presages the impending
Barrage of vitriol and virulence
Spewed upon all in the vicinity.
Unblinking, staring at their
Immaculate shoes, the guests pretend
Nothing out of the ordinary
Is happening, not here.
Carefully selected finery,
Arranged extravagant display,
A mesmerizing feast for
Some other time and place.
A frightening sameness
To their looks,
Their words,
Their beliefs,
Their passions,
Their ends.
Marching in lockstep
To some concocted lore
About superiority and
Unparalleled greatness,
And the wretchedness
Of their enemy,
There always has to be
An enemy to rally against.
Their inner bonfires
Precursors to the
Inevitable conflagration.
He spent his life
Carefully crafting a
Public persona of
Authoritative confidence.
He failed,
Instead producing a
Knot of blemishes
And insecurities.
Thinking punitively,
That’s all she knows,
All actions directed
At protecting the
Tenuous sense of
Safety she struggles
Mightily to maintain,
Everything is
A possible attacker
Who must be
Defended against.
She manages to
Consistently err on
The side of overreaction,
Striking preemptively
Instead of offering
The benefit of the doubt
Or some semblance
Of kindness, trust.
Because of the extraordinary
Pressure she had always felt
To fit in, be one of the group,
Do what was expected of her,
She questioned herself at
Every turn, wondering if her
Sense of direction was broken
While, the whole time,
Her inner compass awaited for
The day she’d decide to
Follow her own course.
I take a chance to
Speak my mind and I’m
Instantly uneasy,
Such is the nature of
Consciousness, a moment of
Certainty followed by
Inevitable questioning.
What the answers might be,
I don’t know, though
Others assert they do;
I don’t believe them,
It’s always the ones who
Say they know everything
Who really have no clue.
He acts tough,
Brash, invincible,
Perpetually
Fake optimistic,
Because that’s
What he thinks
People want to see.
He forgets that
It means more to
Be vulnerable,
Courageously looking
Inward to find and
Reveal his true self,
Unadulterated.
Sitting on a bench
In a garden,
Looking out over
A placid pond,
He wonders whether
It might have
Been different,
Memory embellishing
What never was.
They spend a few
Brief minutes together,
Talking about the weather.
Neither utters the
Words waiting to be said,
Depth being difficult.
Vulnerability avoided
One more time in the
Name of nothing rational.
They say goodbye,
It could easily have been
So very different.
