Friend, why whine and point
To where you thought you'd find
Dead certainties kept?
In some bleak and tenebrous place
Hidden so none would find
Save you; your anticipating face
Grown long and brooding, sick
With the nagging notion
That through all the commotion,
The swell and fury of your concealment
Amounts to naught, since
All you thought was for yourself
To lay tough claim to truth revealed
Though now you find it not in the dark
But in the light most clearly marked.
© Celeste Plowden 2010