Her Obsidian Eyes
There’s a masquerade of feeling where no heart is.
I try to veil my true feelings of dismay in a shroud.
Trudging through the woods of ebony;
falling into complete obscurity of shadows and the soul.
A world of silence blanketed under and smeared haze of smoke;
the night changes to a dark opaque silver sky,
and a slow death of the moon.
I am drawn to the subtle scent of roses
and the weeping sounds of sorrow echoing through the trees.
She sits alone, an image of beauty.
I must not gaze upon the flawless skin of ebony,
braided hair cascading around her shoulder,
a dress of crimson wine and rose petals bending off her curves.
Her obsidian eyes could hypnotize me into befuddlement,
so I stood quite aloof from her.
Under a thin layer of veneer,
ripped up to the absence of any suture,
she weeps for the things she longs for the most.
Still must I hear?
6/3/2017
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