That We Call Face

it clings helplessly to the skull

like an overripe fruit

ready to drop on the

forest floor

or perhaps a child’s

play-sticker, loosely gripping

blood and what-have-yous.


it never really reveals itself;

it only shows its smoothness

and curves or some

clandestine scars here and there.

it parades its flaws or its enchanting

beauties, but never actually revealing

in the sense of some burning, un-burnt bush;

always, always concealed by

tightly shut eyes.


it hangs precariously to the skull,

un-revealed, imperceptibly slipping

and pulled by a certainty

that is gravity

or that more certain something

we humans call age.


One thought on “That We Call Face

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