Beneath tightly knit eyebrows
lodges a pair of eyes
that witness the abundance around —
but instead of seeing in faith,
sow the seeds of doubt.
Eyes that blink when the magnolias and
sunflowers burst into full bloom —
wondering if they will wilt and be drained
of their pigments in the very next frame.
The same eyes that fixate on the swirls
of the raging typhoon and the sprint
of the petrol bombs’ flames across the street —
convinced that all beauty, good and hope
have been forever eclipsed.
Are these your eyes?
Are these my eyes?
Holding pursed lips together are
Jaws that tense so often the muscles
and joint are weather-worn.
Bruxism which occurs from instinctively
wanting to smile at the neighbour —
but grinding to a halt
at the remembrance of loyalty,
of party lines: beware of the enemies.
Are these your jaws?
Are these my jaws?
Slumping shoulders slide further
from the pull of slender hands,
wrapped in a Gucci leather glove
and trapped in a permanent fold —
hugging the self to sleep
to the lullaby of greed.
Are these your hands?
Are these my hands?
What is yours,
and what is mine?