when in pain

pain does not heal in solitude, but through
sharing with close friends,
it assumes a more formal pose,

every rose does not bloom
to meet the sunshine,
no one, in a room
could discover the joys
of THE SUBLIME.

pain is what makes us mortal,
softens our gaze,
takes the razor
out for a drive
under the naked moon:

to love means to disclose
our closeness, gestures
we are afraid of showing,
the infinite glowing
the shower
of gold,
platinum shimmers
the fold of laundry
billowing in the wind,
tossed as waves,
raves.

becoming an adult, we assume
more guarded faces,
no song beckons with a charm,
the races of our hearts
pales and subsumes
our deep, rooted
virtues.

we ask why
when we come just as we are
we feel pain
ridicule
grief, it is because
we entered the
wrong party.