Hidden

Suspended in the nighttime harvest

a sufferer walks,

baggy pink cement eyes

and frozen rain

spotting their face like silver.

The ringing delicacies of a

beautiful refrain

echoing in their smile

while grass at their feet grows

dull:

the sadness ebbs into the foreground,

seeps into double paralogues

folded in breast pockets of

a coat tucked

at the back of the wardrobe.

They want to forget their memories,

lose the words that say nothing

and feelings that touch wistful

skies like seaweed lungs in

sweet tea.

The hard of heart

walk their pain into the ground,

highlighting their lives to

mould them pretty.

Cast their likeness in gold and

polish their hands —

remind them their

touch is worthy.