Poesia

A soundscape of whispers

spreads over the room

like a hindering wing

while I straighten my lapelle.

Dour portraits are made

of the curses slung on the walls

like a mad-man’s affinity,

not to be forgotten,

unlike the living,

lithe & hidden

beneath veils & fedoras,

(opulence),

nameless among themselves.

How easily a favor is forgotten

among this crowd,

overshadowed by the slightest mishap,

swept beneath the rug and trampled

(proving that it is, in fact, easier to scowl).

Instead, rumors seep

through the cracks on their palms,

leaving only wrongs to be done.

I adjust my tie although the guilt

is perpetually flung about the room.

Blood congeals around their mouths,

ready to be shot out like

warning from lizard eyes;

did it ever hold any weight with them,

ground them in unity?

Though I dust off my pants,

the nascent aroma of backstab

still hangs

off my suit like the harrowing

ghost of misdeeds

past.

—starky morillo