The Agenda

The Agenda

I went looking for a face

and found only a wardrobe

of clever scripts.

No one is genuine.

The streets are crowded

with actors

who have forgotten

they are on a stage.

Every declaration of love

an invoice waiting to be paid.

We approach each other

like merchants in a dark

market,

hiding our compulsions

behind polite words.

We have agendas for our

prayers.

We have strategies for our

grief.

We cannot even weep

without checking

how the tears will look.

They are not evil.

They are only asleep.

A machine cannot be authentic.

A calculation cannot love.

But I am done

playing the clerk

in this marketplace.

I would rather stand

brutally alone

in my own raw emptiness

than spend another hour

negotiating survival...