Composed

Sketching lines with tired eyes

his fist a shaking grip

retracing his favored disguise:

the smirk upon his lip

A pantomime of mockery,

reflected in the glass

mirroring improperly

his own inner morass

Attempting to escape his flaws,

he tries to hide their form

Concealing his true face because

it looks at him with scorn

But deep beneath antipathy,

that layer he won’t brave

a craving for self-sympathy

the prospect to be saved

Spasms trapped in spiraling

eddies of old selves

resurfacing and cycling

in devastating swells

They crash and spill over the sides

of each wall he has built

as merciless as rising tides

or everlasting guilt

Too numb to contemplate the plunge,

he rehearses tired lines

wishing that he could expunge

the depths of his own mind.