(For lost souls . . .)

Trapped in a trickster funhouse,
I shrink at freakish reflections that seem only to mock,
Sometimes distorted, sometimes distraught,
They mirror the facades in which I’m caught.

Caught in the grip of despair,
I punch the empty specters much like one insane,
Sometimes in relief, sometimes in pain
I shatter glass, but it’s always in vain.

Broken now and bloodied
I sit in silence, cowed by images I abhor,
Now aghast, now something more,
Perhaps a face I could adore.

AJD 3/30/2015