Silver Sojourns

Tattling tales the tongue translates
from each layer of seconds lived.
Does the voice that sleeps in the mind
really have a compass for the night?

Beguiled of lust and vented by quips,
each glance into the looking glass critic
is cause for invention and excuse.

Never comes the day of reconciliation
when eyes and image are in harmony
just passages from our past and future.

We hold with a ticket to lofty isles
where one is divine, unblemished and holy
it evaporates in our gazes
as face staring back into our secrets
stirs so many oxymorons one tried to live.

Somewhere in the questions one can't answer,
the reflection journey traveled reaches a pit stop
whether it become oasis or cemetery
depends on how close to truth
one cares to dwell.