Quiet

Life has become a series of strange moments,

Like the barely perceptible appearance of mouse whiskers,

emerging from a long silent cranny,

I begin to see my own instrinsic beauty,

Just as the first of the lines,

those lines that mark the slow death of my worth,

Appear below my eyes,

Along my mouth,

Between my eyebrows.

The slow demise of my worth in the eyes of this empty world,

So they tell me.

Death as liberation,

I say.

I had to spin my heels and walk,

Walk with determination and defiance,

Away from them and straight towards the very thing as they screamed,

“It is forbidden!”

In the darkness,

Just beginning to peak out from decades of pain,

I feel her.

She is more beautiful than anything I ever imagined.

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