The guardhouse of loneliness—
where the truth of oneself unfolds.
Where souls are bargained and sold,
where they compel your truth
to withhold,
where, to survive,
you must learn
to haggle your heart of gold.
This is the choice one is told:
exist to your ashes—
or exit the path of insight,
in the Valley of Shadows,
where the transparencies of voices
enfold.
Where
you must say what you do not mean,
must hide what you dare not say,
where your star must dazzle, often,
in a fictitious sheen.
Where
you must clog up your spleen
with the cork of a phony grin,
smiles forged on your face,
pinned on your chest
like a scatter pin.
Where the mask comes with a muzzle bask,
where the muzzles are from your masks,
to cap the things trapped in your heart.
You must conceal your intoxication
and bask in the darkness of a buried cask,
you must worship the idol
of such godless masques.
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Where
you sit in a fancy café,
sip on your lattes of clichés,
silently choking in your throat
on the well of things, you cannot say.
Where you weigh your truth
against your survival,
where you pay
your soul away,
only to stay
in the oubliette of words
that are not yours—
while your poetry drains
from the things
you truly wish to say.
