Mirroring

All the faces around me,

Look like they have died.

The bodies animated,

Moving wildly, making plans,

Choosing silence over truth,

Submission over forbiddance,

And yet, they are dead. Gone off

Into the abyss like a stick in a gutter,

Rudderless, unaware and confused,

About where the current is taking them.

I see them hiding their voices

In dark, forgotten corners,

Where they are shoved in secret places,

Between the ant hill and the wet leaves.

From time to time, they peek in to check,

If anyone has stolen their precious words,

That they want no one to hear.

Their rebellious thoughts,

That they want no one to judge.

Their broken hands,

That they want no one to hold.

But I do. I always do.

In a glimpse of a second, I see the dead.

I see a small flicker of life there.

I say nothing. I hide too.

I'm not dead. Just pretending to be

Just like them. I hope they see me

As one of their own and confide

In me about how and when they died.

So then I can bare my secrets

And tell them how I'm dead too,

Knowing very well the thumping

Of my tired heart will always give me away.