behind our mask
are priceless celebrations
and faces we carry
from the past
they mean the world to us
besides who or what
has occurred they mold us
into who we are
shimmering images
with mouths and hair and eyes
that gaze back - pondering
we grasp and resuscitate
them over and over
in open tracks
where they float by
in slow moving trains
expressively staring  
with their hands and the side
of their face pressed against
the glass
uttering something
we pause to lift our head
to catch that special
glimpse again
of their beautiful
subdued expression
that fades away
into the distance
only to return cold still
at another time
and all we can do then
is look down at our hands
and notice the lines
that have become
more intense
each time
the train
goes by.