Passersby

 Deep rooted in shallow religion,

His eyes cold and unfeeling

Sweep the paved view,

Blurred around the edges

He was raised by the rod

And the drink,

Late night cold sweats

And teeth chattering

Have brought him to judgment, to judge,

So he does

He follows the movement of the girl

In the colorful skirt,

Allowing the wind to play lover

To her hair

She gives him a glance over

The shoulder and her

Eyes penetrate him, freeze him where he stands

She smiles, dazzling,

And he hates her

Hates her for the freedom she represents

And her happy rebellion

She couldn’t love him more,

Couldn’t need his approving gaze more

But he will refuse,

Will only hear false her voice,

Sultry sounds and warm whispers

Have been denied him

In his darkest nights

So how can they be alive

And inviting in the day?

He will never know the smell

Of fresh flowers

Or the feel of damp dirt

And grass under his feet

Because he was raised to judge

And she was raised to dance