You live in your own surface,
Like a chigger beneath the skin.
It keeps you small--hunched, blind mite,
Parasite clinging to your hidden whole.
You creep forward, forgetting your path,
Forgetting the past, but letting it control.
Your self grows, bites and strains
To swallow you back inside;
To slake, fill its aching hole.
But you scoot on, deaf and dumb,
Knowing not who you've been.
You dwell in your own masks;
In the role of Joker, you excel.
You pander to the audience, a simpering
Harlequin, and fool yourself as well.
You've danced so long, taut in the spotlight,
You are blinded to what's behind the curtain.
But if you smear the bright greasepaint,
The slick fear oozes from your pores.
If you rub off the white face, you disappear.
Still, you clutch your balls and bells,
Knowing not who you are.
You live in your own outer shell,
An oil slick one layer thick,
All rainbow reflections and fitting in;
Fitting the superficial contour
Whatever shape each puddle of people takes--
And you always come out on top.
But it's not a solution.
No one can touch your hydrophobic core;
You yourself dare not peer within.
But the black pain spears, shines reverse rays out,
Darkens your brow as you wince another grin.
