CHARADE

crawling just below the surface
tendrils advancing on worn synapses
i scream out in deafening silence
even in this state there is no respite

why do i continue on?
to play the game i suppose
to hold their hands
to stutter and play mute

i am grieving
i am tearless
why do i fear myself, hate myself
this maddening charade?

-Dale Massey