His smile moved across his face like a slow puddle.
This was not a happy-clappy sudden flash of teeth.
Indeed few had seen his teeth before.
Yet there they were
White soldiers of truth
Standing in two rows, gradually appearing
As the thick folds of his lips
Unforced, albeit unsolicited
Not for you to smile back
But precisely because you were not.
His smile was telling of his heart
Telling of his heart;
A heart that bled for the pain he sought to heal
The pain that so many hide behind their smiles.
Smiles that advanced to try and cover up,
Cover up the wrinkles of a weary soul.
Messages of self-esteem
And rehearsals in the mirror
Trying to convince ourselves
That the voices in our heads are not true
Convincing ourselves that we are still ok
And yet some things never become the truth
No matter how many tell ourselves that they are.
Until we encounter that smile
Spreading across His face like a slow puddle
Ready to pull us out of our
Theatre of masks.