She wore her black veil

Amidst the colors that surrounded.

A widow to the world

And an antiquity to living,

For her spirit had been buried

By the lack of life;

the feasts of death;

and the woes of nights

that overflowed in monotony


She was not old

Nor had she physically faced death,

She tracked through the light of day

Blinded by the sunlight,

Confusing it with the night.


Her shield made her life bearable;

most useful when facing

The tones of others

Never to be removed

Nor to be destroyed

For nudity was her uttermost fear


She dared not to make a sound

Preferring to be oblivion in the face of realization and mindfulness;

A societal vegetable encompassed

by the fright in speech.


She was alive;

But barely considered herself so.


Because to exist

Is different than to live

And to live

Is merely to do so candidly:

bluntly breath the air of freedom

which has been taken advantage of,

outspread our voice

in the righteous right of purely doing so,

smile, when one desires to,

fall openly, if one does,

display your potential, however mad it may be,

and ignore fear, the ultimate cause of death,

because with it our veils will always remain…

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