Solitary Travellers

What happens to the parts of me that you don’t want?

Where do they go when you turn them away?

Back to the dark, deep moat of shame from whence they came

where they hold themselves captive with well-worn chains

of their own familiar unacceptability.

What happens to the parts of me that can’t be held

when they cry?

On whose breast can they rest

when the prophetic star

appears unexpected

in the sky

when there’s no messiahs to be found,

and if there were, the world wouldn’t want them anyway,

inclined as they are to the frightening face

of truth?

What happens to the parts of me you cannot bear

to see and soon I cannot bear

to show?

Where can they go in wee hours of night

where aloneness shows herself as goddess

to the solitary travellers of

this existence?

Exiles in our stifled cries

undignified and heinous

who will kiss their innocence hello?

And where can they go

except

between us?