Most of time I don my cloak, not quite
in Joseph's league, yet its shades
of bravado have enough vibrance to
fool myself most days.
It buffered me first against the verdict's
sharp delivery, codlled my wife and I as
we held each other tight in he park, where
but one sob, heaved our entirety,
but it was only one, many more remaining
coiled in dark corners for mirrors to set loose.
I reach for mine as I begin the crawl over
knives and fire to be awake, its warmth,
a veneer of calm, dampens the chaos of
a fractured self, the abiding erosion of
body and mind.
They applaud my choice of colour,
for though I am in front of their eyes,
I'me not the one they see. It's he who
once was, but is now broken, making
them all awkward or sad,
he who can only disappoint,
can only be less than,
my shout is but a whisper,
my thoughts and feelings
pebbles in their shoes,
I'm a once favourite toy,
ignored but for the brief smiles
of those remember-when' moments,
existing amid crowds yet
living in solitude,
no longer of this world;
I fear that I'm growing ghosts that
will haunt those I love, at their rest
after their kind carry of my burden.
CLOAK & CALM
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