Joker

The Joker took my story literal:

a patient martyr in the mirror.

In situ,

I see a silhouette

with heaving breasts,

but no eyes,

no fire inside —

a coerced façade

giving every corner solace.

There are creases in my skin

I don’t remember.

Around the eyes.

Around the mouth.

I see the world spin around me

through a double-paned glass bell jar

where Spectator becomes

a papier-mâché face I wear,

temporarily,

when I just don’t have the words.

All sounds become a murmuring,

a whur of activity

played out

in gentle montage

pressing glimpses behind my eyes

I can revisit later,

sobering —

unwavering expansion;

all hearts within the mould —

all pressure is a blinding light constrained.

Quiet reminders echo in the dark.