The Simian Line
The single palmar transverse crease
is etched across your hands –
both of them – rare, I believe.
You’re a one percent boy to man.
Head melding with heart – confusion.
Emotion is a record on faces.
Mind matters most; a skewed fusion
of logic built on moving bases.
Frustration dogs you frequently.
Your crystal clear view – invisible
to the naked eye of all and sundry
who don’t/won’t see – or are unable
without your cursed clarity
and one-eyed reason. The brain,
reluctant to sleep, peddles endlessly
its dilemmas, solutions, think-pain.
You don’t feel a real part of it.
An observer; disregarded.
If only they knew how little
they know – climbed over your guarded
wall into your silent bluff.
Your hands curl in, hiding you palms,
just as your body armour rebuffs
the warmth of a mother’s arms.