This is where broken people are.
This is where they wipe their tears away
And put on a new face;
A shiny, glossy mask.
They meet other
Shiny, glossy people and exchange superficial pleasantries.
This is for the people afraid of being alone;
Afraid of being marooned –
By a willfully blind puppet master.
They look for another,
Convincing themselves that they are the ones in control.
This is where the hopeful people are.
This is where the lost people are.
Passing through crowds of people,
But not really seeing a single face.
Trying to both remember and forget,
Wishing they knew now only what they knew then.
Searching for a shard of resemblance
Of a happier time.
This is where she shall drift,