night again.
the common and staid mask of day
slips off my face to rest beside me as
i stare into the nothingness of my tears.
it is only here, beneath the tiny, thin layer
of film that floats on the waters of my mind,
that the aching soul resides in silent anguish.
it holds its thespian face up, ever-stoic, hand
steady even as it is lanced by the piercing
bite of fine steel. encore! encore!
there is a chill in the air, and i am
cold as the curtain falls.
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