The Bead of Sweat

Ever had a moment when you spoke to someone you admire and you feel odd? Like the words don't line up and you begin to feel false? This is a poem of every time I try to speak to someone I admire.

Condense a glance of graying chance to a bead of sweat.

Lock and key of the eyes gently peel the veil.

My flesh is bare and reluctantly shows no sky

It only pulls silken curtains from my attic.

The sweat grows cold with an azure sheen

And simple syllables make tongued graffiti.

Hands form stones and the eyes do flicker

In sandy vowels cooked to a grit.

The glance grows stale when minutes die

To a ticking yellow smile to stab the pride.

It's all so childish but a man wouldn't know

How all the waterfalls come from sparse rains.

Perhaps the glance was held too long in a jar

Or the eyes never meant to speak aloud.

It's improbable that results rise from this condensation

As simplicity has never been so fair and complex.

I close the curtains releasing my sheltered child

So I can eagerly sit and wait for a blizzard answer.

A bead of sweat dances on the deck of cards

With my colors becoming another yesterday.