The Cloak

On the day that tears became a crime,
I put mine in a box to bury them,
Grieved pinch throated in a place of silent shame,
Handcuffed my anger to their framework of opinion.

Happiness wandered dimly somewhere,
Like half remembered summer butterflies,
I caught glimpses teasing beyond reach,
And crafted the deceit of a disguise.

I'd long forgot the purpose of that cloak,
Snagging me among the thorns and moss,
I saw it first when my eyes opened wide,
To the child who'd danced just as I was.

I saw its festered torment as I'd grown,
Caught tight within its folds a tear,
I tore at it until just scraps remained,
Impatient for the self I'd learned to fear.