Smile

His smile moved across his face like a slow puddle.

Slow joy.

Steady mirth.

This was not a happy-clappy sudden flash of teeth.

Indeed few had seen his teeth before.

Yet there they were

White soldiers of truth

Standing in two rows, gradually appearing

As the thick folds of his lips

Retreated. Slowly.

Unforced, albeit unsolicited

He smiled.

Not for you to smile back

But precisely because you were not.

His smile was telling of his heart

Telling of his heart;

A heart that bled for the pain he sought to heal

The pain that so many hide behind their smiles.

Smiles that advanced to try and cover up,

Cover up the wrinkles of a weary soul.

Messages of self-esteem

And rehearsals in the mirror

Trying to convince ourselves

That the voices in our heads are not true

Convincing ourselves that we are still ok

And yet some things never become the truth

No matter how many tell ourselves that they are.

Until we encounter that  smile

Spreading across His face like a slow puddle

Ready to pull us out of our

Theatre of masks.

 

 

 

 

 

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