Tattered shadows lay across True beauty disguised as dross. Sullen forms on the surface lay. Shining gold, Dormant. Reflections of Yeats' pavement grey. But joy cannot, And will not, Be kept at bay. From those who seek. Those children, Lost, Wanderers, The meek. They will not find, For they do not seek. Gold lays beneath the veil, A cascade of dust, Broken fragments, Of a child's forgotten fairytale. Look upwards. And you shall prevail, Life a sinking boat, Which you must bail. Happiness cannot be expected, It is you. Yourself, your gilded thoughts, The part inside that lays, Neglected. Happiness, comes from within, To on the surface be reflected. Reflections will appear, In things far and near. Cast off the sullen cloak, Have. No. Fear. Happiness is not him Or her Or it. Happiness is not some thing Is not a bottle, Nor in a book writ. It lays beneath the grime, and grit, A candle, Waiting patiently, To be lit.

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