Cage

You're teasing me, Life.
You shouldn't. I'm dangerous right now.
I sit outwardly calm, still. Feeling all the physical impact of having run into a (metaphorical) brick wall. I have just been taught a lesson in irony.
My nails are digging into my palms. Another's words echo in my head, beautiful as prayer.
If I let them look, what will my face give away, I wonder.
The Art of Losing?
Though....can one lose possibilities?
If a star died at the same time as a butterfly fluttered its wings, would I see a rainbow in my backyard?
Possibilities.
Surrounded...no..serenaded by talk of angles and stereoscopic lenses, and words speaking of loneliness that are only half-meant, I find my mind drifting. How easily it comes, this talk of sex.
Words or Art? Is it right to be impressed?
I struggle against it.
Maybe if I tried my own, made some art......
Like in kindergarten. My blue crayon is better than your yellow one. Is not. Is too.
My backyard had rainbows in it then. But magical ones, not metaphorical. The difference is, I suspect, one of age.
I realize my attention has been wandering for several minutes now. So rude, when there is still much to say about depth perception. I turn back to the conversation, to talk of impersonal hotels in far-away lands and polarized filters and not one in the crowd guesses that I'm dangerous right now.