When the roots are covered in false color,
by Lawrence S. Pertillar
A naturalness of an essence goes forever.
And a youtfulness that's claimed,
Only changes in one's brain.
When a smothering weave is done,
Cells in one's skull can not breathe.
They become squeezed.
And common sense diminishes,
With split ends finding no relief.
When lips and fingertips and toes,
With eyelashes extended beyond one's nose...
Are falsely expressing a heart enclosed.
Is the opposite sex attracted to what is expressed?
Is it the unnaturalness one gets,
Professed in confessions held that one expects?
It's nice to know what is held close is for real.
And when lips meet there's no slipping away.
And when a swift breeze comes,
Does one want to chase a weave?
When someone says they have nightmares,
Are they really deep in sleep?