Another Story

The sun beat down, a hazy gold,

on all the heads, the stories told.

I walked the path, a single thread,

among the living, and the unsaid

of past desires, hopes untold.

A hotdog bun, a little stale,

I bit it slow, beyond the pale

of any shared and easy laugh.

Just me, alone, on that dirt path,

a silent, solitary trail.

Later, asked, "What did you do?"

"Oh, festival," I said, "it's true,

with friends, we had the best of times."

A small lie, told in hurried rhymes,

to cover up the lonely view.

My reflection in a shop window,

walking home, head hanging low.

The truth was colder, sharper-edged,

a secret, quietly pledged.

A different, quieter kind of show.