I wonder how you hide your
happiness with happiness
and assume it is happiness too.
I cannot write. I haven't
claimed the right to write, to
make the words that I write
come true, like stars. It's all
written in the stars.
You are a star that used to
shine, with your spangles and glitter
and what not. And when you shone,
you shone happiness, happiness
with an ignorant burning feeling
that left me in complete
ecstacy.
Ballerina With Fins
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/aging/
