The cameras are turned inward
As if there's something there
Or maybe hope that something may appear
Fuels this urge to narrow apertures
And the perfect strictures of a staged world:
A face that must be loved
Although it knows it's hideous
For there's no beauty anywhere to feel.
Their lives have fallen through
The sidewalk traffic cracks,
But still they're brave enough to turn like stars,
As if there's no one else who dares to dream.
They've changed their eyes, their hair, their gait
But still they haven't changed—not assimilated
As promised, they stay as ripe, red wounds
On the canvas as the layers rise like clouds.
Oh to be loved, although they are!
Their eyes burn heavenward, with the
Longing of the saints—what is here
To love, is it as empty as—there?
