Maya Angelou

The Detached

We die,
Welcoming Bluebeards to our darkening closets,
Stranglers to our outstretched necks,
            Stranglers, who neither care nor
            care to know that
            DEATH IS INTERNAL.

We pray,
Savoring sweet the teethed lies,
Bellying the grounds before alien gods,
            Gods, who neither know nor
            wish to know that
            HELL IS INTERNAL.

We love,
Rubbing the nakedness with gloved hands,
Inverting our mouths in tongued kisses,
            Kisses that neither touch nor
            care to touch if
            LOVE IS INTERNAL.

spoken = Eye'z