Faceless Exhibitions

With motion under my feet.

And the world passing on my left.

A day in limbo, different to all the rest.


Onboard that moving passage;

Destination wisely unclear.

Well, actually, it’s all on paper…

From the station to the gallery.


A friend beside; supposedly.

Though I never did know what he made off me.

Especially when the others waltzed along.

Coming from nowhere, seemingly.


Back then, it was difficult to build any bridge.

Harder when all I saw was my own incompetence.


Exhibitions, photography, and endless reveries.

That place, that person – me amongst the rest.

For I could not talk; For they could not listen.

And so I sat back, sulking in my own surreptitious admission.


Four hours. Minutes into years.

Time slipping by; no company but those exhibitions

A surrealist image of a man encased in dust.

A man left in the rain to wonder, and to rust.


A smile, shown every way but mine.

Laughter from all mouths but mine.

Joy from all minds but mine.

And I asked, why?

What have I royally fucked up this time?



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