Behind the Glass

It is a salivating, 

   worthless desire. 

 Behind glass, 

Chemistry walks away; shields. 

Eyes peak beneath shield's, 

Through character worn like mascaraded delight. 

I am the ball, and the chain, succumb, 

Like numb flesh, and scanty lures never worth the rendezvous.  

The shades will never matter more, than my hands as they peel away masks, 

Looking in

To their soul. 

It doesn't matter, I have learned, with scars from husbands and lovers who had tarred my flesh. 

Scars of death on Woman 

Time and time again, 

And the need to hide it in, 

For inherent, how man, we know, is our enemy. 

Marked by the womb, 

I peel away, the sensation of a world born to find bricks stacked out of houses of cards. 

Fixed, 

I dream into the soul agenda, 

Resting my head on a shoulder that will lean back. 

Love is fond in street lamps and nights, 

Where I have lost many a things upon these streets; 

All the most important to me. 

Man breathes in his notion, seemingly clueless to my existence sitting beside him atop the same flat. 

Against a wall we stare out. 

I know he doesn't see me, 

And I observe the fermenting silence. 

My love has always been one I know they do not understand. 

But for once I would like to be understood. 

Even if merely,

It is by my own self. 

I bind these bricks and put them a lay. 

In ritual, stating my truth. 

"I am from the material but not of it." 

No, I know, 

You can't 

Keep up, 

On the other side of the glass- 

Soul so cold to mine.

On the other side of the glass; 

World looking in. 

Looking out.