These gestures of purity are not wholesome.
I believe they accompany concealed motives.
Am I justified in my probing suspicion?
The faucet handle that dictates my tears is broken.
I cannot hold back my salty drops,
These transmitters of my growing apprehension.
See what you do to me?
See how you belittle me to such expression?
See how you give aid to my doubt?
These remarks of supposed reassurance
Do not calm my rapidly suspicious intuition.
They only chafe my distrust, Sophia!
© 2012 by Charles Banks, Jr.
Writing as CURIOSITY
Excerpt from Page 14 of “End of the Road”