The pen is the mind’s ink,
The page, the thought’s canvas,
The dark, a reservoir beneath a veil;
The collage of raw truth beneath
A woman’s niqab,
Or a venetian mask…
Do some pill-pound and plugin to brain-chatterboxes
In attempts to leave the curtain undrawn?
To forgot that the disguise is on?

I am deep beneath the veil,
Perhaps seeking Eurydice, young girl of soul-summers past.
Like Orpheus, I turn back to find her following,
And the chipper, bemused laughter of yester years
Is inadvertently lost, forever forsaken in the underworld,
A creature of darkness now.

Time twists us with metallic ticks.
I wanted to feel everything because
Anesthesia is not a cure.
And now I wish that I could twist back
To numb naivety,
To youth’s Eurydice,
She’s gone.