You who feel A sense of comfort Of safety In your everyday existence Your routine. The milk is always fresh at breakfast. The steak is always medium rare at dinner.
Consider the child Who never looks straight ahead. Head on a swivel, Her peripheral vision As keen as that of a New York City pigeon. Small spaces and Quiet knocks Leave her gasping for air and No one to turn to.
Consider the man, Whose life is orderly and routine Yet he never sits with his back to the room Fearful that his shadow will one day grow weary Rise up and Swallow him whole. He tries to love And let others love him. Yet there are days when his flesh begins to burn from the inside out It is all he can do to keep from tearing at his skin Damaging himself beyond repair.
Consider the woman Who walks with a seeming confidence Hips swaying with a sense of purpose Yet her hand is buried in her purse Clutching at a small vial of liquid mace. Without it, she fears Everyone will see what she sees in the mirror A haunted soul Weak, Ugly Scarred beyond repair.
I only offer you these words For we walk amongst you She is the woman in the perfectly fitted pencil skirt who Seemed to lean in and brush up against you in the subway Sending shivers up your spine. He is the nice-looking guy with the sad eyes who Smiles and says good morning You wish you knew his name – ask him. She is the child that glanced back at you as you hurried by Eyes brimming with emptiness You sensed it She had a secret to tell…