Eyes float past, pale and piercing portals
into worlds beyond most
obvious perceptions. These
Sphinxes of individual tragedies
protect their riddles, petty and
profound.

Ancient secrets, sexual anticipation and
suicidal angst whiff by as
I walk the street, keeping to
my habitual beat. Slight scents of
stagnant fears and dried tears
abound.

Inaudible whispers in stale, silent air
deafen my intuitive ear; their slippery streams
of subcurrent sentiments lap loudly, incessantly
against the inner recesses of my restless mind. In
unheard human voices do I
drown.

My skin prickles as people scurry by
and brush past in a bored, but hurried mass. A blur
of rushed pretension and cold, resigned
contention to the blandness of their lives leaves
me sick and sullen of their sad
resounds.

I am a keeper of dusty secrets and see the pain of days
long past, my third eye aware of woes
forgotten by those who walk in my wake, some
forsaken and worn down by time and the twisting ways of
fate. I pause, and plunder these open hearts
pound by pound...

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