Are you afraid of the faces on the wall?
Do you run back to your home
built atop a foundation of misunderstanding?
You live in a house
where the doors never open,
and the glass is opaque.
But praise be
to the sound structure and safety you’ve found
in silence and selfishness.
Your fingers wither and wilt
as flowers do
not because of the passage of time,
but because never once have they been lifted.
They settle into atrophy
as they lay
attached to your idle hands.
Your mouth stays wet
for your lips have never parted,
and your throat has never swallowed any truth.
You fear to choke on aspirations
yet your arrogance asphyxiates those around you.
Your yard is a cemetery
where we had to bury your victims for you
yet you’ve never seen the graves.
But beware.
Your glass is opaque,
but it shatters still the same.