I have no face.
Masks allow me to see
your point of view.
The back of my head is open to the boulevard
and swallowed up by the yawning sky.
Progress is my strong suit:
I have repudiated my own history.
And, as I am a type of x,
I can take on any value.
X must not be defined,
therefore I abdicate my own definitions and terms.
It’s so logical.
When your gaze
burns with contempt,
my image flickers, thin and gaseous.
I put my hands behind me
feeling for the universe
they say is inside every head.
But someone has trepanned my skull,
letting out the daemon, leaving me
without the tongues of men
© Copyright 3/24/2012 by Sara Hall
All Rights Reserved