Deportment

Swept away and stumble forward,

unsteady stance.

Subtle anticipation,

advances made with a single glance.

I'm an outlaw,

a passerby,

and suddenly flooded with despondence,

a vehemence,

and I can't look back, for that would be vacuous.

So I numb the pain,

then stumble again into selfish gain,

with my hands on the adornment around my neck,

simply leftovers from an illusion that once was mine.

I sigh from my delusional state,

keeping my head on my sleeve,

and my heart at a gate.

The shallowness I beam is what I'm owning,

the detachment of who I was,

and who I am,

is growing,

and I'm torn,

from what was always right,

doing now what I felt was always wrong,

but the burning,

the throbbing,

robs me,

and I am left with nothing,

except some blue skies,

a fist full of four leaf clovers,

and fevered longings that won't ever be mine.

So I refine my thinking,

stand up and step forward,

determined to not look back,

then you glance,

and I am swept away and stumble forward,

unsteady stance.