HIDDEN LEAVES

Solitary man. A small bag of groceries. A meal for one. Nobody notices him. Yet, he notices everyone.

“Memento Mori.” A vacant-eyed skull grinning at the passers-by. Death does not mar the party. He celebrates New Year too.

Poems of the bland. Oh, these maudlin manuscripts. The grey men’s journals. Hidden in dusty attic chests, imprisoned inside their hearts.

Tabula Rasa. Every moment a blank slate. This old mind scraped clean. I face the empty screen. What remains to be written?

Man in the mirror, you give me nothing at all. How many faces do you hide with your smile? What mask are you wearing now?

Cicada singing—six long years under the ground, a few days of sun. Why do you sound so happy when the magpie kills your fun?