Despite what I say
I am happy mostly,
but lack permission
to be so.
I cloak the day
in jaded irony
to mask contentment
against doubt.
Too often fear niggles truth
into a lie incongruent
with the line I follow.
Here is where the metaphor goes
awry, like a compass near a lodestone:
I know where I am going,
but am offered other models
best suited to other’s destinations.
A purpose to my wanderings
is defined along the way,
like butterflies descending
momentarily from their migrations
to alight with a random grace
upon the blue flowers
blooming in our backyard.
(August 20, 2024)
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