Sitting in Michael's Lap
The Masks We Wear
Fragile, the soul; a thing of breath and dreams –
Of tenderness and tireless hoping spun –
Revealed to few, and trust is doubly rare.
Guarded by walls, a sight but seldom won,
Interred behind defensive masks we wear:
Visions of strength, of cold oblivion,
Elusive ghosts, for naught is what it seems.
Merry the dance, though ponderous the tone,
Ebullience so strange and out-of-place;
Mirthful and gay, a parody of health –
Yet there, between the cracks of painted face,
Fluttering shadows of the timid self
Retreating to the solace of the space
Inside unmoving features carved of stone.
Ephemeral within the lifeless clay,
Never so confident to brave the light
Defended, though alone, behind the wall
That guards the shade from accidental sight.
Hermit unwilling, but the masque is all --
Each breath confirms that only Dark is right --
Memories yet unhealed of brutal Day.
A gesture made, an unexpected friend
Suspicions rise, but just as quickly flee;
Kinship is found in such a distant heart
In miles, though nearer in camaraderie.
With careful hesitance, the curtains part --
Entrusting truth where once was fantasy --
And even hopes to find a happy end,
Regretting only past reticency.
You cannot choose the way of your death, but the path you choose will determine its own end.
[This message has been edited by Skyfyre (edited 01-03-2000).]