What currents steer us apart. Well versed
At pretending, things are the same, we
Know the opposite. Act we perform,
Dance of denial, choreographed footsteps,
Maneuvering between truth and lies, eye
Contact, touching. We share lives, meals,
Bed, but we are separate. Startled awake
By bleach odors, you are cleaning at 2 am.
Whilst taking medicinal coffee and fresh
Air, I recall Homer’s Maiden of Bronze
Safe-guarding Midas’ tomb: “While water
Flows, and tall trees put forth leaves, and
Rivers swell, and sea breaks upon the shore;
While sun rises and shines and bright
Moon also,” my living, breathing maiden
of bronze, I will never understand you.
No, it’s not end of the bronze age. Bit of humour
and Homer, thanks for reading this moody poem.