Mime: Poetry

Too few times of honesty,
instead the slight of correct phrasing 
and redirected tears camouflaged 
by a white-washed smile
rotting from the inside out

Perhaps if no one sees or hears
the wounded soul in the forest
it never happened;
just don the attire of relativity 
and slip on gloves of a silent actor

Maybe if the tears are shed
in the morning darkness amid 
starshine and quiet,
they were imaginary;
discard angst as inconsequential
and view the painted face 
in the mirror as true

She goes on pretending
to be impervious,
while motioning with artful hands
towards the invisible cage
binding her heart 
for which she has no words.

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