The impress of form 'neath a veil,
Her scars are but sediments of sentiments
Outlining without specificity the ebbs
Of her dark, internal reservoirs.

Scrolls of indiscernible braille,
Her slashed forearms convey
In archaic lexicon the innermost
Artistry of her sanguinary soul.

One finds within her labyrinthine mind
Innumerable subterranean recesses-
Balmy hollows carved of ashen loneliness-
With room for one and one alone.

À chacun son gout;
She traverses with ethereal placidity
The bounds of her self-erected walls,
Searching for nothing and everything