There are eyes all around,
surrounding us, peeping by a
creepy corner, darting through
the darkness, blinking flashes of
white ovals, sprinkled with red thread.
Big brother, with his everwatchful
eye, scanning each pace, scrutinizing
every last brittle bone of naked
figures shivering in the dark.
They silently move through the shadows,
each optical detector cataloging and
detailing defects – scars, pustules,
pimples, ingrown hairs, leaving scarcely
enough room to breath; these artists
with no place to fall, stand doomed,
hoping this judgement will soon draw to
an end – begetting only more
scrutiny. Helpless, frames fall to the floor
and refrain from rising, silently expecting
murmured mockeries as tears
puddle the floor.
ED
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