Why do we feign such rapturous delight,
in pretence to others that all is alright,
what if the soul is quietly suppressed,
cloaked in darkness, hidden and repressed,

Are we ashamed to drape the veil,
to retreat into darkness and embrace the pale,
truth can be found from deep in a frown,
so why wear the clothes and tears of a clown.

© H V Swan

Ignorance is bliss
  In moments like this
When we can not forgive
What we can not forget
And we're forced to live
With this life of regret
I miss the ignorance
  I miss the bliss
I miss the tenderness
      Of his
Lie laced kiss

I go in circles of self love to self loathing
I go in circles of I love her, I love her not
I go in circles of I'm straight, I'm gay
I can feel my life cycling slowly as if it were going down the drain.
I go in circles of happiness and depression
I go in circles of I can do this, no I can't
I go in circles of being too full and starving
My life is cycling like a bike up an unknown path
And I know at the top of this path, at the bottom of this drain I might find something worth living for
But right now I feel dizzy from all of these circles

When you come out from hiding,
I will be waiting
And we can both throw aside our masks
But never for too long.

And we can either end this or start this
Our engines burning, tired,
Cold
But never truly real.

They'd never have guessed this,
We'd never have attempted,
But I've always known,
Swept away with the wind.

The gore doesn't match your clothes
As we cut deeper into ourselves,
Closing into discovery,
But no one ever knows.

Where was I two years ago?
Nuzzling your hair?
Kissing your cheek?
Or was I numb with pain by now?
Every word choked out like pulling teeth.

Did we take a shower together that day?
Where I swore your body
Begged me to stay?
Did I ask you yet your reasons why?
Did you tell me nothing in reply?
Did I ask you yet if this was just a break?
Did I go to bed, praying I’d never wake?

I was entrusted with a secret
What seems forever ago
So long that I forgot it was one
and I let it out
The words slipped out with ease
And soon begged to come back in
But it was too late
The words lied there between us
Obvious and ashamed
Never to be taken back
Once you say it
It's already too late

The banker sits for his lunch. He sits with his superiors. They ask, “how do you?” He replies, “Good, and you sir?” After pleasantries comes food. Everyone ordered a salad. Food is picked at with dashes of chatter. After food comes business. Business among superiors. The banker sits quietly using his wasted acting talents on feigning interest. He twiddles thumbs, smacks gums, and adjusts weight from one flank to the other.
The bored banker nods conformatively. When addressed, his name varies from Tim to Tom to Jack. They were close it was Al. He fills in facts and numbers the optimates don’t care to recall themselves. It’s the only use he has at lunch. Those superior to the banker could have brought his report he made up for this occasion. But, there is an air of aristocracy when one has a serf accompany his master to a meeting of patricians. Like all courtly meetings, the barons and governors hide slights in compliments, cloak ambition in kindness. Use pens as daggers, dried ink as poison.
It’s not the banker’s place to notice such things, it is place to serve those who deserve his servitude. Every time he services his lordships, his tie gets tighter, his skin looser, and his bald spot increase its diameter.
The bored and defeated banker rises with the Bourgeoisie, clings to their heels, and gets the door. His lunch is over. His break is done. Back to his desk he retreats. Back to work. His time as a squire is done. Until his masters call upon him again. For lunch.