Heading slowly home through the heat
To a phone bill and a bank statement,
I find myself caught in that strange time
Between work and play, when the city
Has a chance to catch its breath.

I wonder if she is in a similar
Wilderness time; between the departure
Of her admirers and their joyful return,
Their rest and rationalisation giving
Her a chance to close those famously
Wide eyes and hear that her heart
Is beating still.

I know her not, nor any of those
She has portrayed, yet I feel that
She is misunderstood by cruel,
Unsympathetic hearts that merely pulse
The spilled blood of those they have
Maimed for profit.

She is somehow not of this world,
But a fantasy created by an imagination
To rival that which once possessed me.
Now that mind has turned to
Other matters, she seems to have lost
Something I cannot identify;
I hope that it is not desire for life.

Perhaps someday she will shed
That skin within which she has
Hidden for so many years,
That artificial exterior that so many
Believe to be her in her entirety.

I hope those eyes do not leave it
Too long before they become
Amazed again, for there is much
To miss by eschewing the world
Outside oneself.

06/07/2006

Posted on 06/22/2006
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