Poetry could be my solace,
Rhymes without reason, my support,
When life moves in a harried pace,
Some normalcy, I try to purport.
Now-a-days, I seem to need,
Not a nudge but a shove,
Unease continues to breed,
Of anxieties a trove.
My steady gait belies,
My ripened state of panic,
With a smile I try to guise,
Fears within that are volcanic.