Surface

In the moment between two pieces of music,

A moment in the middle of glimpses

falling from one direction to another,

A moment of hesitation,
or reconsideration,

You may see beyond the surface

-beyond the glass, that looks like mirror-

You, who says truth is folded in layers,

You, whom poor laymen call poets,

or the veneered society calls philosophers,

You, who are always willing to romanticise ideas,

to translate them into ideals.

Did you see that woman impregnated further

by an unpleasant force between her thighs?

Did you hear her shriek, silenced within the

walls of the bedroom and a marriage certificate?

Did you see the shame on the little girl’s face

when her sheets turned red,

and she could no longer touch the plants,

she had sown the seeds of?

Did you understand her mature realisation,

years later, that someone else’s seeds were

more important than hers?

Did you see the pubescent boy driven hysterical

Over his attraction towards another boy

(the same hysteria that follows a crime of passion)?

Did you feel his dignity shredding and

settling into those layers of truth,

while sucking off the school Principal

to prevent any ‘trouble’?

But oh poet, do not trouble yourself.

There are no romantic ideals here,

or layers of truth, ‘tis but a mirror

that will reflect your own self,

and you, in no degree, are to blame.

‘tis only the surface and
no scope of seeing beyond it.