It’s
the stillness that I have practiced all my life,
Emanating
expressionless emotions,
Silent
when it’s not my turn to profess,
Silent
when it is.
In our fictitious past,
You
had ruffled it with pebbles,
In
an attempt to wrinkle the placid lake,
Into
patterns you yearned for.
Pebbles
I could easily follow the wake of,
And
detach.
And
resume nonchalance.
In
my smug, detached, still, innocent, perfect, present tarn,
What
could I do,
When
a soft breeze hushes a quiet ripple,
Sends
a wave of life and gloom?
Until
the next reminiscent bout,
I
wait.
I am not
sure whether it is longing or dread.
I
never was.