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Poem

Under the veil of twilight, in the whispering pines,
Where the sweet rain drifts through the western air,
I find myself lost in the labyrinth of my own thoughts.
Hypocrite women, how seldom we express our doubts,
While, with doubt, we care for the man in his uncertainty,
High up, among the trees in the mountains, in the thick air of poetry,
A white sweating bull of a poet declares our s are ugly,
Why didn't we admit that we’ve thought the same?
And what shame? They are not for the eye!
No, they are dark, wrinkled, hairy,
Caves of the Moon...
And when a dark humming fills us,
A coldness towards life,
We are too much women to admit to such unwomanliness.
With wantonness, we play and plead with the psychopomp,
And say nothing of it later,
Our dreams, with what frivolity we have pared them,
Like cut nails, like split ends of hair.
In moments of silence, when the world is quiet,
I wonder at the duality of our existence,
How we care and negate, love and loathe,
Lost in the labyrinth of our own creation,
Unable to speak the truths we hide so deeply.
In the shadows, under the mystical veil of night,
We are more than the sum of our parts,
More than the whispers of our doubts,
Yet bound by the silence we impose upon ourselves.
Here, in this sacred space of introspection,
Let us unearth the truths buried beneath layers of pretense,
Let us own our darkness, our coldness towards life,
For in admitting, we find the strength to transcend,
The courage to embrace our true selves,
Under the veil of twilight, in the whispering pines.

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