The Faces That Never Blush

They walk with pockets full of mirrors,

each one turned toward the sun,

blinding you before you notice

your own reflection’s gone.

Their smiles are painted,

not with warmth,

but with the lacquer of intent,

every gesture folded twice,

creased for a purpose never spent.

They wear their truths like brittle masks,

just strong enough to crack at will,

the fracture timed to let you see

exactly what will make you still.

No guilt can root within their chests,

the soil is stone,

the water black,

your trust to them a shiny coin

a thing to trade and never give back.

They measure worth in breathless stares,

in how much faith they strip away,

and when your guard is ground to dust,

they leave it scattered where you lay.

No crowd’s disdain will make them flinch,

no whisper burn upon their skin;

their armor is a calloused pride,

forged from the echoes of their sin.

And if the world should bare its teeth,

and howl the truth in every ear,

they’ll walk unbent through every shout,

too deaf to doubt,

too dry to tear.

Some call them clever,

some call them cursed,

but all who’ve met them know the cost:

wherever such unfeeling strides,

a piece of trust is always lost.