No facade elaborate enough
To adequately conceal
The inner-conflict
In which I am embroiled

No crooning of comfort
Can delivery me peace
Or forestall my mind's
Eventual unhinging

No foxed, tattered pages
Of forlorn loveletters
Strewn with stark promises
Can resurrect my will

My compass confiscated
My map of reason
Torn and trampled upon
My future at the mercy of shadows