…the second wave

Anticipation wears many masks
it comes in waves, gentle at first, then roaring
as an injured beast in the final moments of battle
unrewarded, it ebbs, becoming strangely still
serene and silent, the servant of the moon
but beware the second wave, for it is tidal in nature
an instrument of devastation, that initially treads lightly
a contradiction to its nature, its mission, to raise expectations
to watch as hope rises on its tattered, tired wings
its true purpose, a predator, with finely honed instincts
it chooses its prey carefully, plans the approach
paints the scene, inviting, serene, it toys with the truth
disguises lies and fabrications
painting everything in love and light and endless possibilities
its brushstrokes soft and gentle, belying the darkness within
its seemingly tender attention, designed to reawaken anticipation
to sow the seeds of pleasure and pain
to channel a tidal wave of emotions
then delighting in its success, triumphant in gaining your trust
it waits and watches, imagining the impending disappointment
its masterpiece now shifts from art to music
playing in false harmony, tensions rising with the pitch
and for a moment it is lost in its own illusions
visualising the final onslaught, the crescendo
the point where all hope is lost
admiring its own dark art, filled with self-importance
triumphant in its terrible deeds, indifferent to the damage done
the very definition of narcissism
anticipation, joyfully anticipating the devastation it is wreaking
blithely unaware, that it is planning
its own inevitable demise
© Ann Bagnall