The Jane outside my window is not real.
She’s just a fevered dream I can’t describe,
a searing pain that I don’t want to feel,
an intoxicant that I can’t imbibe.
My mind conjures so many listless souls.
I see them out the corner of my eye.
They have a gravity, I feel its pull,
but that force is only the devil’s lie.
Where do they go when I turn to see them?
Do they rain down to some dark underworld?
Or, tis I who fade from the world of men?
A sightless, silent brute in fetal curl?
Taking you by the lapels, I must ask,
what do you see revealed in all these masks?