Washed out, too dry, and somehow incomplete,
they spoke the words as if they were alive;
remarking on the beauty of the spring
without the thrill true beauty brings to bear
upon a heart and soul allowed to be.

Quick and easy, without meaning,
following yet never leading,
habits found ingrained by something
other than themselves -
a system or a state of mind,
perhaps a spell of make-believe,
that said they must adhere to insane rules.

Propriety and social calling,
intellect too large for all proportion;
knowing this, and mouthing that,
just when they ought to, should;
and yet I sensed a presence there,
somewhere behind their gloomy stare,
crying out to just be heard and felt.

They queried and they questioned,
never really listening to my answers;
dismissing me as just another puppet
on those strings so long controlling them -
but there they erred, no matter that
they never knew at all, for still
I am...

? Michaelette ?