Mona has decreed with a Barbaric Yawp that the theme for Poetry Friday is Hidden. So without further ado-do:
"It's hard to be a diamond in a rhinestone world." --Dolly Parton
I am wrapped up in plastic and tissue paper,
delicate and placed in a bag
with rope handles and a flowered pattern,
placed under a tree
that should have come down in January.
I am stuck against a wall like a piece of gum
and stretched away while holding on.
No longer worth chewing,
and long since spit out.
Someone will try to scrape me off, maybe today.
Purpose is the reason for getting out of bed.
I have things to do, papers on which to scribble
and shove into metal tombs.
"Remember this," the chief says.
But I have forgotten the point.
The point is sharp and pokes at a vein,
paper is like heroin to the office.
I want to hide in the crowd
with the hidden purpose,
that invisible thing that has chainsaw teeth
to cut down trees and turn bones
into monuments. That hatchet that chops
off hair and fingers, that makes tears pointless.
I want to roll away the painted stone
and walk alongside the living.
But I am fading as the lights come on
and wipes away the shadows.
Jesus hides in Easter eggs
and caves and leather books written
in squiggles and no one can remember.
I curl back up in the cave.
I wait on night to fall
so I can paint myself back on the wall.
The mountains shake from the laughter,
the water washes ashore and tries to talk.
The old timers are a having a fit.
From every angle, a finger points.
"You don't know shit!"
They shove more bloody food in my face.
"Eat, eat," they say, "for tomorrow we may die."
The purpose, the dull point, what's behind the sky...
It's all Greek to me, and hard to sort through lies.
I am wingless but I try so hard to fly.
The sharp point is that hidden or not...we'll all find time to die.