The Observer

Human nature is a game of perception

A Pursed Lip
A Ticking finger
A glare that could melt metal
A smile with no life
That cracks the corners
But reaches no further
A masterpiece in
The black and white

Eyes that flick and catch
Pierce and drop
Dissect but pretend
Not to see,
Draping a lid to the
Subtle deliberate
Reciprocations

The skin is a novel
And the pages keep turning
Speaking a language
To a silent dismissal
Cauterizing its pores
To a casual glance

We are all readers
Do we know we’re writers, too?