The Porcelain Mask
This mask of porcelain
Molded to my face,
Died the pallid hue of my skin.
Its face moves with the expressions,
Mimics the emotions,
Though all with a light and jocular touch.
This porcelain mask of sorrow,
Oh the sweet sorrow of all the pasts
I've looked back upon with yearning.
The sweet sorrow of the fear
That drove the euphoria of life away.
The sweet sorrow,
With the silken touch against my flesh,
The warm peck from the suicidal angel's lips,
The embrace of depression's Alaskan chill.
This mask of purest porcelain,
Powdered with joyful remarks,
Only hides the sweet sorrow,
The gentle yearning for a better life,
The remorse for that which my battered body can not take.
This simple mask of porcelain,
Smooth and carven porcelain,
Hides the person that lives within,
Veils the suffering the ailments of life bring,
Envelopes the hurtful pangs of a praying heart.
The sweet sorrow of life,
The sweet sorrow of the exile,
Of the forsaken,
The sweet sorrow of my soul,
Is forbidden its debut
By this perfectly carven mask
Of simple porcelain.