A chair stands on four legs, not two (it would topple), not six (too heavy, too crowded). Four: graceful and balanced.
Obedient lumber, bearing their weight. Mute. Pushed, dragged, stacked. But its comfort wasn’t enough. Humans craved labor.
So they harnessed a horse: a living engine steaming in the sun, lean muscle and stentorian breaths, groomed and geared. Yet, its flesh grew tired, the horse’s pain inconvenienced men.
So they built a machine: pistons for lungs, steel for bones, engines for heartbeats— a restless body with no tears.
But a mother remained: straining on two legs, bearing like a chair, laboring like a horse, loaded past capacity.
Author’s Note: A sunset got tangled in street cables above the lamps. Not a postcard-worthy view, but perhaps even more beautiful. What’s the point of faraway wonders before exploring your own backyard?
Atop my heart, where its two hills bend inward, lies the valley.
You sit astride— a stubborn knight, neither advancing, nor dismounting.
Why do you remain?
I never invited you, fearing your sword, its blade honed on our silence. I left the wicket ajar— a slit to watch you— watching me.
But three kin torches at my gate— scorched your sight, ignited your fear. You fled like a coward, left my depths unclaimed. Your halberd scraped my hollow; its echo—a cathedral bell, tolling the coarse-silk wound.
Or is it me— my longing—a magnet latching your armor, stabbing me?
It’s me. I refused to let you go. I stranded your ghost in this valley. Its shroud blinds me.
Author’s Note: I usually don’t let people in. Writing breaks that habit. I composed this poem with a specific notion, then thought about this blog—like a wicket slit opening to strangers. It’s where I create, think, and process. Sometimes poems crack my gate wide. I chose to share this one—probably for that very reason. Yet lately, I find myself questioning the purpose of this space at all.
If I revealed my raw self to you, peeled the makeup, stripped the cloth from my body, Bare— unfolding every crease carved in silence by time— the eternal butcher, dragging a dull blade across my skin.
Would you meet my eyes, lock them in yours, and embrace all I surrender? Or would your gaze slip, chasing youth in someone else?
Would your fingers trace the map my face has become, my eyes—Sirius at midnight— guiding you into the gorge where I’ve buried all my love?
If you leaned closer, beyond the façade of scars, you’d hear the crackle. Would you let its warmth burn through your defenses?
Yet, if you falter and turn away, my heart—a resilient pendulum, will endure stabs of every sway. With or without your love, in all that I am, I will remain.
Author’s Note: This piece took nearly a year to complete. It demanded brutal honesty, many attempts and revisions. It’s about aging, the courage to face it, and the fire of love that refuses to die—even when love itself has long been buried. For anyone who’s felt this way: this is for you. Only a few will understand.
I’ll probably tweak it again someday, but for now, this is it.
In life’s grand masquerade, I wear masks—shifting my personalities, like a chameleon’s skin, I adapt to awaiting expectations.
At work, wielding expertise and proficiency, stiff and stern— a façade of demanded service that pleases strangers.
To my parents, I forge a mask of obedience, an armor fitted since childhood, showcasing to the world their efforts.
For my children, the heaviest mask of all— painted with disciplined example, woven with warm patience, a mosaic of unconditional love.
Among friends, I wear humor—my most popular mask, highly demanded, like a jester spinning witty tales to amuse the crowd, a bright light beams through a kaleidoscope, scattering laughter across every face. This favored mask serves me well; but I shed it when alone.
If you peel off these masks, layer by layer, you’ll find my bare face at last. My eyes: mirrors of my heart, a clear, silent lake… See me.
Unbound, unguarded, unmasked—the real me. Cleansed by the rain of purity, I rediscover my forgotten contours distorted by layers of duty.
For my husband, I hide behind the thinnest mask— a dissolving mist, still he filters what he wishes to see, like a lens zooming in on a single detail, blind to the truth beneath my transparent disguise.
My masks exhaust me; like heavy chains, they weigh me down.
Yet, the ludicrous carnival endures— A hollow parade of fleeting extravagances: temporary delights and shallow possessions—soon forgotten.
Each costumed soul quietly yearns for rescue, rebelling against the imposed pretenses— all longing for gentle affection: to be seen and loved.
So, I ask you this: What mask shall I wear for you, Monsieur? Or dare to meet me unmasked, heart open, soul bare?
If you’ve read this far, you’ve glimpsed beyond my masks. Would you come closer, strip off yours— eye-to-eye, no veils between us?
Behind the ramparts of this masquerade, I stand—will you rise to find me?
Author’s Note: This poem has been on my mind for a long time. It reflects the roles we play in life—often without even realizing it. We wear masks to please others, feeding their endless demands, and in doing so, we lose ourselves. We don’t just project a false image—we surrender fragments of our identity, becoming puppets bound by the strings of others’ expectations.
From childhood, we’re trained to follow directions and meet society’s expectations, as though we must live for someone else, constantly under the lens of judgment. This disconnect creates a lack of authentic connections, yet the yearning for genuine affection stays in our hearts.
Another layer of this poem explores the tendency to seek validation through material possessions. Many hide behind fancy items and designer labels, projecting an illusion of worth. Beneath the surface, these illusions often overshadow one’s true value. Like hollow mannequins draped in overpriced clothes, they project their worth through price tags.
We’ve all worn masks at some point to fit in—it’s part of being human. Nevertheless, I think that everyone has something authentic to offer, but not everyone is willing to believe in it and embrace their uniqueness.
I have no intention of changing who I am for others, but I’ve learned to adjust my behavior when necessary—like it or not.
When does the masquerade end? Perhaps it ends when we cut the strings and dare to stand unmasked—naked, trembling in the panic of inconvenient reality, yet finally free!
Life is too short to dance to someone else’s tune!
Finally, it was my birthday last week. Birthdays have a way of sparking reflection, don’t they? This one felt particularly powerful for me. Like a wake-up call, it urged me to think deeply about the kind of life I truly want to live—and the masks I must drop. 🎭
I was meant to bloom— unfurl, sing, and shine, not be tended or trimmed, not molded for duty and possession.
I was meant to bloom, not decorate an entropic cave, not drizzle in vain someone’s emptiness with the sweetness of my effervescent petals— infusing their spoiled, sour strands.
Even in the drought, I drank rainbows through my veins. My tendrils breathed warmth into soil, while the sky hid behind clumped clouds. I stretched toward muffled sunlight.
I was meant to bloom.
And then it rained, not to nourish or cleanse. Poured. Unstoppable— the ground swelled, my petals sagged, roots dislodged, my garden drenched to swamp.
Yet I stand, sturdy but hollow. They nest in my shade, leech my youth, and — call it love.
Slowly, quietly, I sink.
Still—
Dreaming of butterflies, even a wilt can reach the sun. Single ray ignites its desire.
Butterflies will come And I will bloom… as I was always meant to.
Author’s Note: Not everyone who stands tall is thriving. Not every flower is there for you to pick. For every time you bloomed in silence, offered too much, or were mistaken… This one is personal. 🌸
Author’s Note: This piece may look familiar, but like passion itself, poetry evolves. I removed the unrefined version a while ago because it felt unfinished, incomplete. I let it fully breathe, then reshaped it—until it became what it was always meant to be. This is the latest version, more final. Though still… insatiable. 🙂
Wolverine Lily 