The Watcher

I look too much to the past.

all my actions seem too late or mad,

shouting in the park
                              surrounded by ghosts.

They keep their distance,

locked on dazed trajectory,

and they will not be touched,

disappearing angrily
                             at unwelcome contact.

Yes, they rocket through my world,

surprised that it is not theirs only,

embarrassed at my shining gaze and

                                                     broken grin.

This wry face knows what they are,

though some still pretend to live and breathe,

the death confined to the eyes

and to the pallor
                        of flying feet.

I am the watcher: the wincing reminder

that pain cannot always be hidden

with the luxury of
                          a mask.

Knives in their backs, hot pokers in their eyes,

my stubborn existence pulls at their knotted hearts,

all bitter ends unruly tangled,

nerves firing incoherent
                                  in the scar tissue surrounding.