I cry a storm for Robin Williams. A beacon, he weathered bipolar waves, hid dark downs in high laughter. His death released a million floating secrets. I understand but mourn.
On busses and trains, along Las Vegas movators, in swish shiny cars, a million secrets float by.
See that man, that woman, that child?
Sitting there, on a bar stool, a rock by the sea, a seesaw in the park?
hear him swallow liquid lies
feel her tuck words beneath skin
watch the child fold sharp tin behind her heart
hiding pain in the space below.
The brain, it lies, it tells tales
distorts and corrupts
so that no one ever knows why
a man with such heart
could not pull himself up
push himself back from the edge
the biggest mystery of all
why he chose death instead.