Look at me.
What do you see?
That isn’t me.

Look again.
You see the man.
You don’t see what’s within.

Listen to my words.
Their call for accord.
A mask of sorts.

Listen to my meaning.
Its call for healing.
Hidden in manufactured feeling.

Taste the emotion.
Your heart all motion.
Fulfilling a function.

Taste the sweetness,
Of life and loneliness.
A mirror or something less.

Feel the tug on your soul.
Recreating something old.
Something you think I told.

Feel the fire in your mind.
Fanned by what I helped you find.
Something that was never mine.

But behind this sensory onslaught
Is what I’d like to introduce you to.


Closed to all intruders.
Hidden by many masks
In this masque of life.
In this dumb-show.
In this rehearsal.
Where we play a part and grasp at words.

Peaking out from under.
Permeating every task.
In this masque called life.
In this stage show.
In this curtain call.
Where the part conceals depth below the surface.

Confined and torn asunder.
Arranging the pieces of fact.
In a proper masque without life.
In a play without drama.
In a comedy without humor.
Where each part is just a taste of the tragedy.

Revealing unknown plunder.
Rich in what I lack.
In this masque of life.
In this movie madness.
In this final scene.
Where some parts make you feel eternity,

Beyond the sensory onslaught.
Deep inside the masque.

© 2012 Wasted Space Publishing

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