A shroud of delusory darkness
Covers her everywhere she goes;
It’s only visible from the inside
So no other soul ever knows.
Other people only ever see
Robes in all the colours of life;
She never lifts the shadow veil
That conceals her turmoil and strife.
Made of dense and heavy fabric,
It only serves to weigh her down:
Her thoughts and movements are burdensome,
Her inner voice makes no outward sound.
Her perceptions are distorted,
For that cloak whispers dangerous lies,
She can discern neither light nor truth
From within her deceptive disguise.
Thus she exists in a blighted world
With her silent, stealthy disease
While, ignorant and oblivious,
Others go on with life as they please.
Yet within her remains a fragment
Of indelible, hopeful belief
That her mantle might be removed
And her soul may at last find relief.
©2017, Joanne Van Leerdam