The outer signs are there.
I have affected the perfect mask.
Yet what lies beneath the pose is not calm.
It moans with purposeful attempts
At shattering my placid state.
A single glimpse,
And memories rise before my eyes,
Significant in their intent to plunge me into misery.
My heart beats on in anguish
While I strive to recapture poise.
Crude phrases come to mind.
My inner child laughs at my antics.
How well it knows me.
Where once I reveled in sublime ecstasy
I now languish in despondency.
Grasping at faint hope for rescue.
When will this unquiet end?
Books by Nanette Littlestone:
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