839. Untitled

[hes]

There is this wholly painful irony
that churns all the bitter solitude
into a constant roiling mass
that never rests.

It gnaws away at the fragile peace
that is layered on top of a sheen of anxiety
and a foundation
that is brittle to the touch.

Some days, it is as if
the world has slipped back in time,
to a place where a set tradition
overrules everything else.

It's a constant wound
of social embarrassment
that cannot be explained away
with the wave of a hand
and a weak smile.

The seething burns,
a white flame that licks
and creates a widening gap
between reality and disbelief.