Bench Bum

I etch my mind into wooden benches,

because my voice has been taken by vultures.

The silence of my lips becomes concrete

And manifests into a two dimensional forest.

Empty trees photosynthesize as if they were green

and as gusts of wind pass through their branches,

they remain unchanged.

Still life in a fast-moving place.

Unheard and unacknowledged.

Yet, my two dimensional, unspoken forest of ink

causes disturbances in the untouched puddle of my dome.

My reflection in the pool of water is disrupted,

blurring my face into an unidentifiable,

swirl of human skin.

My smile disappears.

Even though I never stopped enjoying the look of contentment it gave me.

My happiness was erased,

but my grievances have been suppressed just the same.

Left at the bottom of an aluminum can that sits,

unchanging while everything around it decays.

An apathetic canister of tears,

forgotten,

yet infinite.