It glares into the corners,
thrusting their contents into view.
The bare ones it discovers,
and lights up all their flaws.
It thrusts its glowing fingers
into cringing faces,
whose eyes no longer linger,
but seek the cool relief
of dark places.
Chill and fresh, unwritten,
stubborn in face of harsh demands,
instead it hides and is hidden,
secrecy and silence its greatest friends.
The blemished and guilt-ridden
find comfort in its spaces.
What whispers are there spoken?
It complies to the wishes of
the whisperer and leaves no traces.
