Mascara

a veil descended upon his restless soul converted into apathy and grave sadness no need to take off the mask of shadows there was no living persona left to reveal he dreamt of Venetian Carnival nights but the only seduction was an illusion of free flowing movement in stagnation Henry was well versed in nagging despair he had been living a pantomime in disguise a rebel with course that led to destruction now in the naked light of nothing to show for his drama was an epitaph without real prologue curtains drawn and only mocking applause script empty and the protagonist sidelined a prompter whispering mindless nothingness an epic disaster personified with no hope he tore his bleeding heart out of pulsation ready to sever his wrists in an almighty gush yet only red make up trickled upon his face and rescued a lonely narration never to be 17th July 2020