My mouth still moves in perfect timing.
Regardless
of the lost practice
you forced upon all of us,
no one had the nerve
to say it out loud.
But I could still smell
the burnt hair,
the bloody tongue,
the tasteful overheat
of large hollow heads
made from two-penny wax.
We put into circulation
a posse of no meanings, all girth;
the silence stays clandestine
beneath the held chin
and laced fingers
of your fellow victims.
A sharp light
shoots out of the darkness
from the estranged window
-- eight meters
from the constant mumbling
of words less meant.
The light
seems prettier by the second,
more sincerely enticing;
the freer of what it is
I'm not being paid to do.
My pupils
dance to the song
of the light outside,
but nothing's changed.
My mouth still moves in perfect timing.
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Submission Name: Family Prayer Time! Move!
