There is a mite of melancholy hue
In the incandescent rooms of gladness.
The acrid air of imminent newness
Impregnate with the musk of finitude.
Even in the loud crisp colors of love
People meander with a swaying limp
A desperate glaze in heightened sight; an imp’s
Mischievous ready stance – the hint of fear.
It might be best to stay untouched, intact,
To hold your poise against the curve of life,
The stoic’s stance, the cautious balance act,
Free from the spikes and falls of every strife.
Though it might be nice, it remains a sham,
A wish only, an irremediable plan.
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