The Fake People that Dwell in Caves

In bright puddles
that rain left,
A reflection of people that must have,
passed the asphalt, muddles;
Opaque inside their heads;
A dark, huddled, sleepy spread;
With lips sealed shut,
hardwired for the same old rut;
And glassy eyes that stare,
for no want of repair:

The giggling waters unaware,
break their motion, into a kaleidoscope,
that snares,
the unknowing into them;
A splash of cold could wake,
second hand people,
fake people, you think,
From trying to be what they are not;
That which they cannot be.
the ribbons and lace,
could only be icing on their graves.
But they just pat their feet,
upon the pave,
and move on, move on,
Far away from the rain-eaten streets,
deep into their shallow caves.

© soulreserve 2015

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