There is something to be said
about the art of hiding in plain sight;
placing a smile instead
of a mien lit under a vacant light.
This instinctive deception we thread
through multiple loops of disguise
etches reasons in it’s plated chrome,
holding a mask over mystic words
till the labyrinth feels the only home
while we take a sip from reheated hurt.
And the wounded, left with calloused hands
from sifting through the jagged dirt,
still clutch resolutely to their broken pans,
hoping to find, as if flecks of gold,
a glitter of acknowledgements
in what they believe are silted folds
of an ungrudging alluvial earth
and not the barren dunes of wastelands.