SECRET OMA

Some say that the face is the mirror of the mind. Does that mean the inside of the mind or the outside perception of our existence? Are we evolving into who we want to be by creating and acting in new ways? I question this concept and ask, when we exchange one idea for another, does this create secrets? Or is it another facet of our personality, discreet and dependable? Live your secrets to become who you are.

He then learns that in going down into the secrets of his own mind he has descended into the secrets of all minds.-Ralph Waldo Emerson

Secret Oma

Under a concave of branches,
cut and perfectly formed
into a dome once filled with sap;
some insignificant was talking to her
but she could only hear her
own blood-filled words, hear
her own secrets embedded in
the spiral of her thumb print,
hijacked into fine lettering,
tattooed in hieroglyphics,
splitting into the
mysteries of her double mind.
Regularly she flees into
a storm of something exhilarating,
a smoking burn of racing tires,
the gas fires; the slow dance
thrills her to the justification
to peruse a hot evacuation,
extenuating the possibilities,
setting up the metaphors inside
her tangle of words. It’s
her preconceived picture,
an actor’s improvised dominion.

Maybe a diary of secrets lives
in her, a track of dualities,
a veiled thread of meaning?

Layer upon layer of mascara,
black lines of distinction,
a crossover between white lies
a master’s artistic interpretation.
Her laced canto voice slips
from another made-up life,
sultry within in her plot, curled
auburn locks hiding half a face,
a solid blood-line, a living statue,
a strong nose on a chiseled profile
suggests something, something
as her gray eyes penetrates you.
What can she have?
What can she have?
At the expense of your signature.