Smoke and Mirrors

If I am beautiful, then it is smoke and mirrors.

On level footing I may disappear

And you will never find me,

Never in ten thousand years.

Not here, not where the light

Of morning softness breaks

The cover of my long-drawn face,

Not where the sleepy and still silent

Art of rising peels the blanket off my studied grace.

I do not know what dreams my eyes might show

When I have not yet cleansed them of their candour.

The woman who awakes beside you is too much of me

That you might break upon her insolent affection.

If I am beautiful, then it is of the study

I have so carefully embraced

And bled into my smile, my footing,

And the way I breathe your name.

If I am beautiful then it is my chef d’oeuvre,

My great illusive act.

You cannot know its secret.

You cannot ever know how deep I’ve gone

Into this hapless helpless

Desolate defenseless

Ugly

Love for you.

My mirrors have begun to shatter

And if you call for me your care will cut

Itself upon my broken voice.

I cannot carry kindness.

It is hard enough

Trying to hold back the smoke.