You try to hide your fear behind a veneer
of strength, try to put up a facade of calm
but beyond the outer strength is the odd tear
that slips, unguarded.
You stand bewildered at the fork of the road.
Left? Right? Blending into an instructable
sameness, certainly uncertain of where your
Redemption Days lie.
To the confused, every coincidence is
an omen, the whisper of God rustling the
leaves one way, or another, but what if like
lemmings one must jump?
For the Day 11 prompt at NaPoWriMo, a sapphic without all the fancy trochees and dactyls…