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
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