Heads
A very fine dry mist
Difficult to see
But it’s there.
Diaphanous anticipation.
I see hues transform
Around busy heads.
Heads down,
Nodding, shaking.
Some quite still.
I see the hues,
Even in restless sleep,
Telling haloes.
I can diagnose
All of those
Private heads.
But do I have the right?
I don’t.
And so I don’t anymore.
Never again.
One day,
Too many green black
Happy heads,
In one room.
Happy young heads.
Sadness weighs heavy,
Heavier still,
With guilt of denial.
But while,
Heads still swim in the mist,
They can also still smile.
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