Tiny Catastrophe

They talk of dark alleys and exotic cuisines,
of sliced wrists and smut magazines,
of bastard children and mothers demeaned,
of love stories and androgenies,

They listen from behind their blinded eyes,
some mysterious whispers, some beautiful lies,
rising against the setting sun,
young lovers and their tragic goodbyes,

They fondle with their plastic skin,
a love expressed, both curse and shrine,
and spit their renditions upon my face,
scars with no name or crime,

The sun rises, they run and disguise,
put on their shirts, jackets and ties,
unshackle my chains and mend my cries,
clean their faces, put on their smiles,

But they speak not that, what my heart decrees,
nor hear what my pungent soul pleads,
this magnanimous world it seems, is just too big,
I'm but its tiny catastrophe.

(Image courtesy - Granny Annie)