Suspicious Little Creature

I don’t trust you, joy.
She arrives glowing—
cracking beautiful things.
A vain little creature,
in a porcelain mask.

Joy is sugar on the rim
a glass full of poison.
Always sweet—
till something breaks.
Left costly choking.

Let me vanish into shadow.
Leave me be.
Let me make something that’s mine,
where none can see,
and with mud of earth in my pores.

I don’t want joy—
just meaning.
Let its weight lay honest.
I"d rather feel the culling of truth,
then fall to its dulling.

Don’t trust those who smile too widely—
Their light is borrowed,
and reclaimed just the same.
There’s always something hiding
in a face never wavering.