Wandering

Every person is a living mystery to me

You,
with the bright eyes,
What do you see?

Aside from just people
walking past us as we speak.

Can you hear anything?
Anything at all?
Or just the slowing footsteps,
of those about to fall.

But do you ever care to wonder
why they’re so exhausted?

Is their most recent memory
a drunken one,
did they simply stay up all night,
Were they talking on the phone
and heard the words ‘‘I’m sorry’’.

What’s their story?

What’s the reason behind all
the footsteps
the echo and echo
and pound in my head.

Why do I feel the need
to hold their cold hands,
why do I feel as though
I know them, but I can’t.

It’s as though the voice
in their minds’
is not theirs,
but my own.

And the sights they can see
are all tainted by me.

Black paint dripping over
the building and the benches
and it happens so suddenly,
the way my mind changes,
like a mirror that shatters
and a gorgeous reflection
becomes a horrifying nightmare.

And I can’t find the words
I can’t find my feet
I can’t find the ground
that I really should meet
…

Maybe this is why
they’re all staring at me

Author's Note

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Reviews

[LM]

Very creative and insightful read. Your structure, wording and flow is very good and your approach is unique. Nicely done!!