The two of them always sent their emissaries to meet; always negotiating, masks interacting with masks, each pretending for so long that their front was real that soon they began to believe it. The facades became reality; except, on some level, the Soul knows the Truth; and that Truth is Universal. Their souls craved to be seen for all their intricate beauty, to be known and warmed by communion with other souls. The soul craves to swim naked in the sea, running along the dunes to dry, so full of freedom that it accepts any encounter with love and curiosity, urging the other souls to come from the shadows and the shells to dance in the circle; cherished, reveling in the revealing, the Unveiling.

That could be us
but no, we’re
Quite the cute couple,
sculpted bodies,
soy lattes,
seated facing; but
eyes facing phones
or the morning paper
across the table,
polite or not polite
casual conversations
that never break the veil,
sad reflections of the Truth,
cold companions,
neither in nor out of
this dance of masks
which should only serve
to bring the yearning
into stark relief,
tearing the skin
without reaching the itch,
But no,
so long in this coiffed minuet,
linked only by finger clasp,
no longer flirting with flight,
long forgotten the struggle,
the desperate negotiation;
we don’t even peer at the edge,
balancing risk/reward for
a cliff dive into fulfillment,
versus the bloody tumble
and crash of the near miss.
The sublime displays
don’t phase us anymore.
Beauty only reminds us
of giving up on
who we could have been.

Master of Denial

She fancied herself
A Master of deception;
but she was only good at
Deceiving herself:
A Master of Denial.

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