Scattering the grinning skulls,
that clatter as they knock together,
I watch in shades of awe and terror,
she laughs and spins a tale.
There are many, she says, who call themselves wise,
but they are not.
Several more who think that they are clever,
but testament of such truths
lie not in twisted tongues,
or in the chaos of the cosmos.
Intellect and wisdom do little for
ones ability to reason in the fray,
the ever-present seed of doubt,
and time can alter everything.
She gathers the fetters,
like bells they ring, and she throws
the bulk of them over her shoulder.
Be wise, fair one, she says to me.
Kindness could be your downfall.
Books have carried you to the outskirts,
you are still drifting between realities.
There is no such person, for what you seek,
and you will constantly be disappointed.
The man who promises you everything
will torture your soul forever.
Live without feeling, kill off your kindness,
stop bleeding for others, and become stone.
She stops to smile, eyes gleaming, boring behind my face.
She sees me for who I am,
a woman of loneliness,
who spends too much time in words
staying into the wee hours,
figuring the meaning of it all.
The one who breaks down
in bathrooms, to decompress
the constant disappointment
that comes with conversation.
And not who I pretend to be,
a smiling, loving, caring person,
who never doubts her friends.
She who walks with confidence
able to take anything,
strong and capable.
But I am adaptive…
Perhaps I could survive
on coffee beans and false promises another day,
and though I take the bitter woman’s words, circulating them, figuring for their worth,
I cannot make my heart obey
the ruthless commands.
At least, not yet…