by Richard Vince

Left hand skittering over
Right hand page, she pulls
The shining silver thread from her heart
And weaves it into black ink.

It is strange, knowing that it is
Not just me that comes here
To find what one has hidden
From oneself, and yet it is
Comforting to know
That I am not alone.

Like me, she does not
Look like a poet:
We live our everyday lives
In disguise, hiding our hearts
Behind platitudes, feigning
Disdainful detachment as
Feelings fill our souls.

All I saw of her words was
How neatly executed they are
Compared with my scrawlings:
My stolen passing glance could not
Render them readable.

They were never meant for
My prying eyes: they exist to
Lighten her heart and to
Make sense of the world
Into which she walks,
Notebook clasped to her chest,
Coat zipped up against
The evening cold.


Posted on 11/12/2017
Copyright © 2022 Richard Vince

Member Comments on this Poem
Posted by George Hoerner on 11/21/17 at 06:41 PM

Ah Richard, is that not who we all walk? Clutching our most holding our most prized feelings to ourselves! Only here where we pray there are others who, if not feeling the exact same way, at least recognize our personal thoughts and do not make disparaging remarks or worse. Good write.

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