Cynicism burning,
cold sickness turning.
Black and shaking inside
a cold river runs sloshing
down my sides. Tears sprung,
I’m only one.
A façade held up to light
shows through like broken glass.
Fear consumes me, fight or flight,
a sudden kick. My life is farce.
I find myself waiting, listening
to a silence that stretches on forever.
Bleak tinged with white, touching together
all I can never grip.
Living is waiting to be found out.
All that follows is death.
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A lightness of touch: Poetry in the face of pessimism.
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