There are many people

Each holding many things dear

However,

among them all,

There is always one thing,

recognized or not,

That no one lives without

 

What does everyone have

That few want

That causes some to kill themselves

and others to wish they had?

 

What does everyone have

That hides us all from sight

so that,

only when no one can see,

are we ourselves?

 

What does everyone have

That hammers can't smash

but the words of another

can?

 

What,

I wonder,

would happen

if everyone

lost them?

 

Without which

we are all hideous,

to ourselves,

in our minds

 

Without which

we are vulnerable,

scared to see

any living soul

 

Without which

we are

only ourselves,

completely

and utterly

 

Without images we are

pure and decrepit,

strong and vulnerable,

but,

above all,

Free

and wishing

to be chained

 

Without images

We don't know who we are

Our fear takes over

and,

Once the images are stripped away,

We only find the rotting bones

Of what never was

 

So,

we keep our images

and with them,

our caged fear,

our invulnerable strength,

and

our lives.