A Malady of Self
Is this malady true, or a trick of the night?
Wallowing through perceived blights and blows
Should I turn towards that mirthful morning light?
Is this unease even mine to behold? who knows
This milieu plays to me rehearsed and contrite
Still bulbs flower and the spring wind blows
If, in time, I cast off this cloak, a fire shall ignite
Perchance even inspire in me a lighter line of prose
But who will remain if I permit myself to burn this bright?
Copyright © Kate Davies | Year Posted 2023
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