Prosopagnosia

Prosopagnosia

Stained glass windows to the soul,
Framed by net curtain lashes;
Mere identikit black holes
With no revealing flashes.

I may focus on your lips
Painted crimson or left plain,
Or those cheeks as round as hips,
Forming memories in vain.

Shattered fragments of each face
Put in boxes one by one,
Each component in its place,
Nothing telling where it’s from.

All the features dance and swim,
Never form a single whole.
Makes my intellect feel dim:
Face as hieroglyphic scroll.

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