Hide Me

Extreme to the least is the chase of appearance; everyone knows a face. Noticeable is taken lightly as the dragon is boisterous incidentally while accidents do happen intentionally there is a tiger which rests to his side as the discretion of what comes into place while all eyes are on us, whichever us you pleasure with pleases. Recognition is paranoia in our presence as we cannot be mistaken for any other than the indigenous genuine ingenious stupidity of emphatic emphasis; we do not even attempt this oblivion, we are the state of the unknowing.

Disguise is not a game; the mask is taken seriously. We run to the end as we perform as ought to be for whatever memory cannot recall maybe an end of that which did indeed begin.

Only the image of a self I altered for the lost ego witnesses the body I wore as a best dress for the Venetian ball of never ending ignorance; she sees the features, she still sleeps. I am not the talent of ventriloquism or a master of puppetry; she offends of this yet understands what I mean.

"What will you do when there are no more faces to wear?"

Gypsy pharaoh risen from the land of wandering spirits yet to see this flesh; now worn by another self will she decipher the tame husband amongst the ego trip? Rainbows garnished the entry of thine pyramid as we walked side by side down the crimson carpet, my Beau to witness, I am not his mistress, he is not mine, we do not kiss for lips, we kiss to adore gentle cheeks, intimacy knows us not, we belong to each other's will, the need for each other's skill, this married us thus death shall not part as the dead now longs for his company. Somewhere in the damnation of molecules amongst atoms as science called them without humanity's intervention, he is a labor of presumed riches; I miss her as I am impoverished without him as my wealth.

"I suppose then you will see me if you can recognize who I am."

"I do not believe there was ever a moment I saw your features."

"You know who I am."

"I know your speech, your walk, I know your style, your charm, your disgrace, your mischief, I know your presence as the half of my self I am without unless you are near."

"You do not know how I write...."

"You write for me."

"You do not read it for me."

"I am read by you."

"I desire for you to read what I write."

"Why?"

"You will know me forever as my words."

My desire is in anguish as a woman; a little heart beats for her inside the darkness of a swollen petrified womb, ancient as the brink of blood, he trembles for her as she screams silently convulsing the forsaken becoming. I will not lie nor tell the truth; we know she is dying extinction, a disappearance, dissipation as a broken heart which falls apart. I cannot be without her; lost in our selfishness I am without foresight as to what else....