Stung and dusty now and certainly a little bruised

I’m in constant grinding frustration

Oh these Spring time blues

Nothing more exasperating than ambiguity

I’ve flirted with it for far too long

Now the ironic turn is grating in the lock.

A rusty sour taste and mustering up a smile that may somehow evade all honesty.

The microphone is low and the stage bare

I’ll produce some enactment some semblance of perfection

If I can reel all the words I’ll stream along the top.

The breathing holes are evident

A dotty bid for escape,

Eyes shifting, lips moving.

Skimming over the facts and pausing for the laugh.

And again the shadows come along.

And the illusion bows as the curtain falls.

Applause, beguiled by the slight of word.

The confident trickster bides her time.

Fishing for these empty pockets of diversion.