Hidden in the folds of her uniform,
Beneath the glare of an unfinished moon,
The glare of the metal clearly reflecting her face,
Into her pocket she replaces the silver spoon.
Appearances deceiving,
Mastered through a conquered glare,
But so painfully insecure,
As to tug and to believe that I'm not there.
I am not Mr. Jiminy,
A Cricket acting as a conscience,
To one so falsely innocent.
For while you know your ways,
That let you lie to me,
You are still a grasshopper,
And I, a time-worn, wizened tree.
And as the lightning points its finger,
Unto my aged trunk,
I believe I am still standing,
While I'm falling all apart.
back.
