by Paul Hooker
Nothing is so cold as half-spent rage.
apology as little more than vague
offered while the chorus leaves the stage.
the pent-up inner storm where masquerade
the tears that might have made us more than this.
Still, her sleeping rhythm speaks kindly
in the dark,
and the silver moontide through the blinds
a hope of healing, though it leave behind
yet another wound, like all its kind,
The best we do is not the best we are.