Hidden Elements
Mystical poetry
Our temples are shy of a meter between and in this intermediary space his latest defeats confess themselves.
my hair on my flesh bristles as the air shifts in atmosphere and his mood become less dense as I spill polite musings —
saturating him with words that ignore the inflammation and stress-fat and internal scathing remarks that spill over from below his brow.
The Watusi tribe speaks initiation, handing boys spears and presenting them lions. in Africa a man is made from an obtuse rubber goose. and overlooked, perhaps, the lions which were within us the whole time.
Every skeleton has a story to tell, and my plastic boy perceives through a less burdensome lens when he sees me and for this he is strengthened and for this I am grateful.
©Daniel Barry, 2022
