Contributor: P. R. Armitage

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I hate to say I need the people in the morning streets
as they walk up and down the boulevards
dangling thoughts from their sleeves.
I have to look and see the tendrils of gossip on the walls
shimmering and glistening,
saying more than I would have thought.

In the eyes of every passer-by
a dull-mirror lies within.
The spark of truth that mixes
with the lies, tarnished with sin.
For as they look at me I know
they see what I've become:
how I've deteriorated from gifted
to just another "someone."
They tell me that I am too fragile,
they tell me I am weak.
They show that I spend too much time inside
the mind that has become bleak.
They shout their truth to the skies above
see it shimmer and glow,
and then as it starts falling
watch as it turns to snow.

Without their judgement, how could I see
what's tattooed on my skin?
What am I lacking that makes me so shallow
that I alone can't see where I've been?
There's a letter on my jacket
but God knows what it says.
So I look into the eyes of strangers,
as they whisper what I am.


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