Lost in Translation

What happens when, a man
would rather be angry, even vengeful,
than to admit the frailty of fear?
What happens then?
There is no bravery or courage in fear,
nor in anger, but at least fear fueled rage
yields results. The smell of burning minds,
and the fear has no traceable scent.
The meek and the timid scatter like spilled
porcelain dolls not secured on their shelves
of voyeuristic importance.
No more glass eyes watching with poker faced
and emotionless intrigue.
What if  there was no more to watch?
The doll’s eyes can be removed, and they can be
put back in thier coffin like boxes.
All they will hear is the muffled like mumblings
of those who see with clarity, speak in present tense,
but that is all they will have; distant conversation’s heard.
All because a man that would rather be angry than afraid,
would rather keep his collection of buried
glass eyed stoic faced fragile collections,
boxed, hidden, and
in the dark.