“Facade”

She chaotically spun through her days as

a jet with one engine so counterfeit.

Yet subtly landed with the grace of a swan –

the waters of her known placid persona still as glass.

 

People noticed not her askew orbit for her joyous nature,

the endearing smile painted on the face of her plane;

a clever front to the perception of people of proximity.

She noticed always her askew orbit for her contrived nature,

the commandeering smile painted on the face of her plain;

a clever front to the perception of people of proximity.

 

The dejected quite calculatedly acted the opposite, she cognitively contended.

Our kind shares smiles in a clever front, and all is mended.

 

She were as an orphan child that would paint the canvas

of possibility with a brush of bleak, strokes of solitude;

she’d bruise her horizons’ skies and slash her aura with a forsaken knife,

tendrils of her heart languidly ribboning to the floor as unwanted film.

 

The people of interest could look up and regurgitate the carelessly

chewed on colloquialisms “I’m proud” and “you’re so sexy.”

Her mask contorts into contrived countenance of joy.

Her facade is controlled chaos, coordinated anarchy.

 

I saw right through, yet yielded was no revelation about her true self;

I knew her routine descents, her paradoxically perilous placidity.

Through them, through anything, she was always beautiful to me.

 

She couldn’t endeavor for a single right for

she fornicated with vain mistakes and spite.

Yet inspired me – to quietly fight as I linger and write.

My own chaos a comely kind of incalculable creativity.

 

I stand erect through my days as a precarious building of beauty;

the architectural masquerade of civility and structure,

yet subterranean foundation seconds from collapse.

The waters of my own known placid persona still as glass.

 

A mutual understanding of what’s dutifully fake;

a self-serving service of spurious sanity naught a mistake.

A jet spinning out of control can land so pretty as well,

a beautiful building can be on verge of collapse (who can tell?).

 

I acknowledge the shared experience and its comfort.

“What do you mean?” retorts her beautiful mouth.

“I am so very happy.” So she claims.

I currently perceive the engine’s dancing flames.

 

Tony Blau Veldt, 05/20/2017

 

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