Excuse these
Damaged goods
For being
So transparent
In the offhand sense
I’m willing
To share this
Open book

If it means
I’d soon believe
What persons
Stay too modest
When trading
Friendly stories
Like strangers
Missing souls

Figments
Barely fixed
On account of
Lifelike faces
Mistaking truth
With reticence
As they argue
Cracks can heal

While evidence
Sorely bleeds
From the wounds
Of mouths unspoken
Where hurt
Is silent entries
In diaries
Lacking voice,

That speech
Of willing chains
Which keep their hurt
Still fastened
And tethered down
Exclusive
As if shameful
Of their pasts

Sewn
From thickest braids
Between lips
Remiss with bondage
To force
That awkward smile
On threads
Across each flap

Ribbons
Tied real loose
So the chance
Appears elsuive
But possible
If they’re aiming
To pray
Through wordless stares –

How I never
Envy pride
For its lack
Of bearing witness
As the pitfalls
Of such clarity
Intend
I must confess.

– J. Pigno