Sometimes I speak like an elderly soul
who does not know conventional slang. Jive talk. Or hipster lingo.
She tells of things that have heart, this inner elder.
Or he. For sometimes, the inner elder me is a he.
He and she speak of what this life has wrought
and they say it in such a way
an unmistakable way
that heads cock to the side
eyes go bewildered
and silence follows, as though we have all
stepped into a play not set in this place.
Sometimes we are not
who we think we are.
And sometimes, only sometimes
it is tiresome to hide it.
Wearying to roll an immense eternal self into
More satisfying to be alone, in every inch of self
Talking to walls and smiling at ghosts.
Where glass faces don’t matter