Guile never wore such a mask,
wrapped skin-tight in a friendly face,
a feast of smiles and laughter –
but nagging of something deeper.
It stalks the mind,
like whispers in the deepest part of night,
furtive mischief with intent –
but elusive the purpose remains.
Pain boils comfortably below the surface,
kept at bay through polite gestures,
a disability easily overcome –
with a dose of silent sobs in the dark.
Fantasy cannot compare,
nor safely predict,
the intruding flickers of doubt –
a flame always in peril from this bitter wind.
Trust bridges the gaps,
filling the perfectly neat spaces,
lost moments and unaccounted words –
lead to heavy sighs for strengthening belief.
With cards held closely,
the players try to read each other,
neither gambling within their means –
addicted without remorse.
Time exhausts the will,
forcing prosaic motions,
instating patterns of habit –
numbing the soul’s every nerve.
Like a shadow,
from the corner of the eye,
glimpses of truth –
never quite in focus.
Color dulls to gray,
which no blinking can restore,
the sighs become more frequent –
as doubt slowly devours hope.
Wavering emotion pervades,
and the mind struggles for peace,
uncertainty replaced with anger –
triage applied to an unseen wound.
The crime bears no evidence,
but leaves a wake of hurt,
a choice made without heed –
a choice that rends a lifetime.
– E.W. Hinton