Fine.

Shielding myself with this strange façade

To deflect the questions and the crimes

To make more forgiving the words left unspoken

For lack of a better term, to make “everything fine”

 

But the fine lines are a lime sign of my brine spine

Cry on the blind side of the book’s fine lines

Since smiling is but reconciling with the splintered filings or bad timing

Soon the sour devours and scours, etching lines, brow glowers

 

So I’ll just tell you plainly, the smile is fake.

So I’ll replace it with a stiff upper lip and braced eyes.

I’ll be indifferent, if complacent, but faking’s not fine.

 

Costume