How long can we suppress this untamable  Wildness?

how many cries can be smothered by these plasticine masks of faux placid civility? 

And silenced Behind years of complacent vanity, smiling faces cast in cemented captured static 

that fleeting charismatic quality we catch for a moment in youth before our fist releases reluctantly

our grasp always being tenuous as youthful blooming ceases and puckered petals fade and fall 

as we feel our armor of perfected deception broken by time and taken by age 

until fate leaves us naked and age takes our iron clad paralyzed chainmail charade 

our petrified bulletproof armored masquerade of delusions’ protection shattered to pieces,

we hide behind our imagined guise of seamless perfection, our stonecold posterior of unscarred creaseless complexions,

of seemingly effortless graceful suppression 

whether by featureless absence, utter abolishment, absolute abortion or by turning the opposite cheek, as it were, by some necromancers’ obscurantist erasure of sight by facing away like a pupil dilated turned magically pinprick-sized black for a sudden denialist of the sightseeing eyeless,

by always averting your liminal stare taking away the light of your gaze and choosing to know only darkening stars of the glazed over stares of unseeing boldfaced all-caps lies that overcompensate by appearing transparent, by lying louder and more boldly than its truth in a font that’s eye-catching and overly stylized the lie says “well obviously i have nothing to hide,”

while slyly winking a beaty blind eye towards the truth so subtle and plain, for what simply is, has no reason to try or incentive to convince or prove itself with extra evidence,

all truth can offer is a shrug, followed by the irritating phrase “it is what it is…”

and that’s it- what more could one ask of truth, besides what it inherently gives?

think of truth and all the luminous insights right before our eyes there for us to see if only we’d dare to open our eyes, 
instead sometimes sight goes unseen in a vision evinced 

by an instinctual visceral about-face that takes sight away from all deniable vision, from all facial motion by refusing emotion’s surfacing 

by repressing all the myriad human feelings invoked or revealed by our facial expression, 

but these cracking crumbling masks of our broken faces once enshrined 

kept up-high in a safe untouchable out-of-the-way sacred sortof place,

enshrined and encased in a “do not touch!” eternal state of a kindof strange living memorium of petrified perfection held in shining perfection inside an unbreakable glass case on the top-shelf in some historical museum,

now falling to pieces after years of subtly shifting inside unyielding casts that have entombed your immortal form in effigy, unbreakably eternal casts in-concrete to commemorate your final lasting form to be cemented in its eternal concrete immortal cast  indefinitely, at the moment of your mortal being’s last sigh and your soul’s final acquiescence to be set perpetually in stone in a still state of still-life’s hardened concrete memory,

to keep you breathless and still enshrined and buried beneath the weight of your warpainted masked-in metal-clad chainmail life of so-called “safety” 

which left you metallic and heartheavy, guarded and empty and once-removed from all reality, 

leaving you banging on a tinman’s chest cavity, to echo back eternities of unheard pleas for a heart to place inside this vacancy.

But after all that, what about regret?

because how couldn’t we regret?

regret all our wildness held,

all our swallowed howls and stifled shrieks

meant to be unleashed beneath the soft forgiveness of grieving cypress trees with needle fingertip branches both feathery silhouettes against the sky in black and electrically luminous through its outlined lace-like intertwining nerves 

 breaking through, shattering our flawless facade, our impenetrable smile of bulletproof protection, all in the stone-cold guise of petrified perfection,

all for the sake of one true wild soul cry…

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