Hi everyone,
I’d like to present my latest poem, A Projection of a Man. It’s about the dangers of being obsessed and anxious with how we are seen by others to the point that we put everything on the surface and do not pay attention to the depths of ourselves. This is a ‘worst case scenario’ of that path.
A Projection of a Man
Look upon this man,
Who seems to fit the mould,
To live and love with all the rest.
Inside a vast emptiness,
Where all that is given disappears,
Every intimate touch; utterance of praise,
Spreads like gas into infinite space,
While the surface glows with warmth.
Shows what is demanded,
By a prejudicial world.
When he speaks, each word is chosen,
By committee of mind instead of heart.
Hollow vibrations,
Carrying neither truth nor life,
Only the pretence of interaction,
For all that matters is reflection,
In each practised, blank inflection.
What made this shell?
What hollowed out the flesh
And left an avocado skin?
Cold, mottled and without strength,
Stringy mucous threads within,
With all nutrition scraped away.
For those that ask the question,
He has an answer near at hand,
Well-practised as he is,
At passing on his portion of the blame,
Along with a feat of altruism,
As long as there’s an audience,
Or if there’s none, Still do the deed.
Save it against all the things left undone,
The things more fundamental,
Like returning love received,
Giving back more than was given.
Best of all the big expressions,
Grandiose displays of care and attention,
Make sure everyone’s paying attention,
And marking the noble intention,
With rapt, adoring attention.
And fuel the myth,
The legend that they all see.
Like a leather-bound storybook,
Gilded cover deeply embossed,
It promises rich depths and much to learn,
Once opened, the first few pages are complete.
Then, after the preamble, after the foreword,
That ushered in the unsuspecting reader,
Chapter One is blank and so are all that follow,
Save for the occasional half-finished sentiment,
Leading nowhere.
Has he a heart to love,
Lost somewhere inside?
Is every page writ with invisible ink?
Will the right concentration,
Of citrus and warmth,
Unveil a work of unbridled genius?
A volume so deep and full,
That it would make a reader weep,
To know it was hidden from so many?
No.
They are blank, there is nothing,
The promise is just that,
And nothing more.
For the grand conceit,
The most painful cut,
Is the lie that infects it all,
That there is more to this man than you can find,
And it is your fault you do not see.
No.
He is blank, there is nothing,
The promise is just that,
And nothing more.
Thanks so much for reading. Please subscribe if you enjoyed this and you can see more of my poetry by following the links below.
Richard
Your Unseen Confidants – a poem
The Ballad of Bethany Hilliard – a poem
Photo credit to David East via Unsplash
The Ardenna Crossing 
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