Calm

Calm is whenever
I've rocked myself long enough
or I've cried myself to sleep,

but the motion and that threshold
are my only tranquility;
at its other side, you wait
with your vagary bait
and I'm the fool
who takes
another line.

Between the oscillation
and my dormancy sedation
it's panicking and dread
and shaking my head
as if to remove
your image.

I feel like an empty house
to your fitful, lonely ghost,
and my floorboards creak,
my shutters bang,
and weeds are taking over me,
and you are here to oversee
my quiet, compliant
ruin.

Calm will be when I understand
you've tried, as I've, and reprimand
anything touched by my hand,
and I can not forgive you,

(so save rocking and teary sleep,
calmness, I'll never have.)