Nary a cloud to hide
the periwinkle sky, in pantomime,
That makes a mockery of me.
Reveals me, truthfully, as a child.
Were a portal to open wide
or I perchance spy a star,
Some premonition of magic,
Of otherworldliness, to take
me, but alas, nothing abates
this fluttering, wishy-washy, heart.
Flows within me, this frustration
with the truth, yet undeniable
as the passage of time, as
the falling leaves and the
amoral existence of human life.
I am alone, yet for this
very reason, burns in my heart,
The fires of spite and stubborn pride.