Newfound Mask

The Cloak

I am, all the unanswered questions
left in my mind,
the epitomes I’ve yet to become,
passions unfound,
frightful beseeching, defunct gods’ fife—

the colors that tinge the veil in my life,
alabaster blues,
pard-black hues and trickles of blood crawling
a Pollock brew,
spirit decrying doubt unto its soul—

incarnation
of a paralyzing bouquet
composed of bemusing orchids
and a memorable scent,
a withering concoction
of petals at the matinée,
webs abandoned by arachnids
inscrutable in wisdom, wordless in intent—

the faithful illusion
of the fateful unknown.