This morning the grey sky mocks me
knowing full well it won’t give me the Sun.
I have no desire to rise, my soul cries.
This morning is winking, and why not?
It knows the joke is on me.
Masquerading in it’s humbug frown
like a man in a cheap suit, begging.
This morning L.A. is overcast
mockingbirds sing an empty song.
My jaded skin crawls like a weeping willow.
Why must these shadows form my ceiling?
My candles bitter essence smolders, violent
whispers echo the lack of depth in this
melting pot. I bury my light under the mat and
let them walk on me, the doorbell does not ring.
So this morning, for the first time I am seeing
my blind spot. I hear my muffled heart beating.
Men walk by, filling in my blank stare with
their own agenda. They resemble your
passing fancy, your striped shirt starched just so.
This morning it is raining and I cannot see,
my soul cries, the tears in the sky take pity on me.