An attempt born of sleep depravity
To make sense of this haunting smoke
Swirling about crisp air, candelabra,
Shadows grazing brand new laces, fresh leathers,
Wine, bonding strangers as friends,
The disconnect being drowned by glamour.
There's stifled laughter, earnest,
Yet matte. There's a glaze to the eyes and a falsity
To the setting.
There's that dark taste of blood red wine,
And a realization born of its honesty.
The implied romanticism precludes true intimacy.
None of these people feel like they belong;
And no one does,
But we've never looked better,
And we've never been more "on,"
So we'll keep feign faces and affective smiles.
Keep our discomfort to ourselves,
And glance to mirrors for validity.
Rut roh, some one grew up whilst I wasn't looking. This piece oozes maturity and clarity. Don't you find it more rewarding to write about this subject without actually writing about it? It suits your style, it really does.
Couple of minor niggles:
'And no one does' deserves to be its own statement of fact, not part of a larger whole.
I would use feigned instead of feign to keep pace with the rest of the poem, but that's it.
I think this could be your best work, from my perspective at least. Time flies, huh?