Subtle

There’s three old prune minds
sitting on the park bench,
rambling about their glory days
of vigor and being gods.
I am cardboard to them
something to hang on a tree
a nice artificial image
to augment the scenery.

I walk through the corridors
each cracked and worn hallway,
hear the moans of sobbing scholars
that lived so long ago,
but their words sing inside
as subtle thoughts and paintings,
does other see the vision graffiti
written on my face?

My skin speaks the air’s quill
my body soaks the sun’s sounds,
my eyes bake in the beams
radiating from the light of lips.

Yet, it all is soft tremors
leaving me a hollow, flaccid life,
a stranger, nomad and vagabond
whose home is in my head,
and will someone enter that portico of profound
where I stroll alone,
they just pass by and look the other
never letting their finger feel
each easily sensed truth.
Then moving elsewhere in their words,
somewhere I am forgotten
because compounding their drifting
is a need to cultivate facades
so they never knock on my portal
to find out how easily it is to reach inside.