The Roaring Twenties

A promise to me that I needed, she said she would.
As St. Thomas threw these "He's dead" words, I know
not to be appeased this way. No anger could
be strongest to gleam red in me, which resolves, so,
I worry about nothing. Oh, stranger, don't dissolve slow
in me now. When did I become this? So now
you are involved; your ghost donning doubt. Why
do these frowns adorn your face when smiles
hide behind and underneath? I lace my trials
with kind and blunder-free; what is there to get
in a handshake with a glove on it? Its cold pleat?