Non-contact Lenses

We search for fragile meaning,
In the bottom of a dirty glass.
I see a wall of animated faces,
Deafening yet quite unintelligible.
Yelling, laughing, abusing, complimenting.
The smoke is followed by brown liquor.
Senses rock with the turntable bass,
Over the cacophony of a hundred conversations.
Thoughts wriggle from control.
Hands restless minus tobacco or booze.


Eyes trying to avoid literally resting on yours.
Sitting. Looking bored. Feeling sad. In the corner.
Not from fear of meeting yours; fear of not meeting them.
Concern at the tragic, common thought,
That there’s so much more to see in yours,
That why should I be privy to the show.
And what would I find down those wells.
Merely my reflection, and more deserving strangers,
Beneath a familiar, icy calm surface.
Under which I truly, purely do fear,
To never longing be dammed belong.


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