Reflection on the future; an oxymoron if ever there was.

Perhaps it’s his cool, smug grin,

Or her endless adoration;

Bordering on idolatry.

 

Awed eyes at the mention of his name,

And the way they seem too perfect.

 

If I’m to be joy’d,

How is it I find myself consumed by jealousy?

 

What troubles me most,

Is not any amount of laughter,

Nor cheerful anecdotes.

 

It’s that I’m not sure why.

 

And I know,

When the time comes,

And their summer days have come to an end,

I will share in her grief.

 

Through her sickening sadness,

And gnawing loneliness,

I will wish for gladder times.

 

For adoration and laughter.

Perhaps,

Even,

Idolatry.

 

I will wish for his return.

 

Reflection on the future;

An oxymoron if ever there was.

 

But in that looking glass,

I espy happiness.

But a fleeting spectre,

Now here, now there,

And necessity;

One of her handmaidens,

Busying herself with what is,

In stead of what could be.

 

 And I know,

That fate,

One of life’s most tempestuous and glorious matriarchs,

Has yet to deal her final hand.

 

And so,

Whilst I must content myself,

Through times both wan

And glad,

To the lot which fate binds me,

I will never cease to hope for what could be,

And be thankful,

For what is.

 

“Keep a guard over your eyes and ears as the inlets of your heart, and over your lips as the outlet, lest they betray you in a moment of unwariness.”

Anne Bronte

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