In this ‘verse,
the expectations are not met.
Cannot be met.
Should not be met.
The threads are tightening and releasing; who has time for appearances?
Form is function and how I seem is less important than
how I am.
I am fluid.
I can twist and change
but not hold static, and no one knows. No one knows,
and they tell me to smile.
I shake my head and slide through a hole into another hole and another.
Smiling cannot find me here
and I have no time for it.
There are threads to read.
It is hard to say something while saying nothing.
When only mystics speak mystic,
what will be gained from seeing me rant and wave my arms?
I can fall or slide and either way I end up in the same place,
in the middle of more holes.
“Weave your words,” she says.
And I try.