A Sonnet To My Painting Professor Poem by Orange Geometry

As with my face eastward turned
I plead with questions I dare not ask
With a slap of silence, I am spurned
Mysteries of circumstance, still veiled, still masked.

Like the eyes of my father's God
You avert your eyes unwilling to share
What you've read in my motley blots
The braid on the plate, the soul medium-rare.

Yet the lilt of 'How're you doing? '
Tells me you've seen me more naked than I.
The demons, they're back and they're leering
But you can only see them with my frightened eye

They'll twist my tongue and clamp my mouth
With or without, you or God, they will not let me go that route