March of the Wallflowers

Pain is fleeting and fickle

It’s the buzz, the dirge

Of anxious energy

Following anticipation

Choking smoke of what if, it could

Here and now fade

To a cacophony of past and future

We live a world of smoke and mirrors

Afraid of who we are under the masks

The great dramatic performance

Our lives curtain call isn’t so pretty

No whoosh and bow

A somber march to the grave

In silence, unable to reach one another

For there is no I with which to reach

Bounce from pleasure to pleasure

Hide from the depths

I am the monster

That goes bump in the night

Not for violence or fear

I am the monster that tears away the mask

That places the mirror

The siren cry of self-discovery

And like all monsters

Where I rest is cold and damp

Echoes of the horrors I’ve caused

My eternal companions

Sleep now beautiful

In the morning

The monster disappears

Replaced by a mannequin man

Who’s much more palatable