Janus

I spoke,

waiting for the prize,

like the ace of spades in a deck,

like the sky beautifully bruised at sunset,

like snowflakes melting on warm cheeks,

like pages foxed by hands that loved them,

like stars dazzling beneath devoted eyes,

like a girl waiting to be proved guilty

for a crime she never did.

I kept waiting.

What did I become?

Nothing really.

Just the joker,

facing his own,

in a crowd of fifty-two.

Just the sea,

feared most by the setting sun

after performing his romantic show.

Just the snow-laden canopies

of a winter evening,

hiding behind the endless white.

The crooked corner of a once-read page,

which absorbed the touch

of love or rage.

The vast night sky,

nothing without her stars,

forgotten because of the speeding cars.

I knew what I was from the very start,

and I spoke too soon,

but was never heard.

Never the showman, always the show,

selling bodies, pitching for unburnt souls,

just to hide

from him who saw all.

And then;

then the earth turned,

nights folded into mornings,

corners tore loose and fell free,

canopies died into someone’s gothic art,

the sea finally swallowed the sun.

At last, comes the joker.

He remains the joker,

unruly yet kind,

unseen and maybe feared.

Perhaps that’s his destiny

holding the universe behind his white mask,

because white remembers,

even when he wants to forget.

His secrets are confessed,

but only to himself.

And I,

I will not speak again,

and neither will he,

holding onto a promise

we chose to see.

And just like that,

we won,

in a way we had never before.

But no one knew,

for we kept a promise

they will never know.