Arlene Corwin Poetry

I seem to have a mark of sadness

I don’t see when writing.

But when read again,

Plain as the nose upon my face

I see it and I say:

Am I that doleful soul

Whose miles of smiles

Make each day,

An inner and an inner, inner

Spurned when I’m awake?

A Janus or an understand-er of existence,

Real both? Real or both?

I know-eth not

And do not care.

I’m where I ought to be:

Here always.

^{Some Kind Of Sadness 6.25.2017}

^{Pure Nakedness;}

^{Arlene Corwin}