the appearance, an impression to please
living buried underneath, tucked inside to reside in need
wanting stains the hands of hope, to bend a knee and pray
understanding madness, as a cold still reach
the peaks of destiny’s belief
shadow’s our semblance, long before we could see
a tedious churning thickness
disturbed, requires cover for the comfort of restraint
breathing in the deep, to calm this keep
losing ground to stay clear, the voice of fear
a volatile sound, now rounded and fit for chain
freedom is the Idea realized and never ever seen
the scourge, calls to be wound down for spite
winding it and winding it once again
the tighter the twist, until we cannot fix
the risk and the urge to tighten again
until the weight of knowing, is sure to weaken
a turning of events borders the peaceful calm surface
the appearance, an impression to please
the pretty place perfect for a keepsake
preciously smothered to appear tame, kept in a frame
refusing to entertain or warn with her Screams
misery holds tight her hammer and swings  
                                                                      
Terry D’Arcy-Ryan