We bow to mirrors with shallow roots,
hold their answers like fragile sugar ash.
Inside, we are a glass of water,
no one notices the faint line of dust.
We stack opinions like brittle kindling—
the fire isn't ours, yet we tend it.
Our bodies shrink in their grip, twist,
a vine desperate to match their angles.
The skeleton of care is ours alone.
Knots of flesh in our throats whisper,
"feed the world your truest hunger."
We smile, set the table for silence.
Each glance is a thirstless baptism,
their vision pouring over the spine,
while inside, walls of marrow answer:
"what about the sonorous ache of self?"
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Author:
gray0328 (
Offline) - Published: May 10th, 2025 11:40
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 21
- Users favorite of this poem: Muse of Calliope
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Comments3
This poem is metaphoric existentialism. A most thought provoking write Gray
This made me pause and think deeply for a minute; so many metaphors and similes packed into here. A fave
Thank You for sharing your feedback and support, I appreciate your thoughts
A wonderful write layered with metaphor, needs more than one read and is worth the extra readings, enjoyed
Thank You very much for sharing your feedback
You are very welcome
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