You know you should have said something.

The coming day pulls flesh over eyes
like sheep skin.
The strobes mock us,
"What of the night
disapppoints you?"
But my mouth disappoints me too.
It falls prey to its own ministrations,
Child to its own lies.
I have heard a dozen or so
voices tonight; they tell me
the same condolences.
If our mouths had lives of their own,
would their offsprings be as cowardly?