A Subtle Foe

A clutching, thumping madness; Cornered Bliss
A jumping, sliding bleakness; Mirrored Jest
To catch a stride, To win in spite of this
To play a tune, To sing a song less messed

Of hope to find the midst perhaps, not burst
Of thought to end the game forgot, not played

My selfish heart does tend to act its worst

My impish thoughts do need to be displayed

My circling brain does lose on autumn night
My open book lies flat against the wall

Of mirrors, Darkest corners find such light

Of puzzles, Pieces scatter, break, and fall

To translate mouths, do pour some salt in girth
To combat lies, have ears that never miss
A subtle, waking verse; A journal birth
A passing, jumbled phrase; An open kiss