These Masks we Wear

All wear masks at some point in life

When the crossroad is reached

A fork in the path with a signpost,

One hand pointing right, the other left

A sharp awakening, as stark as the bone-white sign

And a choice must be made: it is then the mask is donned

Or it creeps up softly, crouches by the bed when they dream alone

Rotting lips touch the delicate ear, and a word,

A seed, is born in their mind

And the mask is created

They build the masks themselves

Their desire to be who they are told they should be

Cuts the shape, and chooses the color, of their prisons

Pink with blood ribbons for the girl of sweet words

Dull, brown cardboard, for the woman who dreamed

A grinning, nightmare visage for the timid man

And a sharp hawk-face, for the boy who always said yes

All bear these masks, because in this world,

There is little hope of living without one

To smoother dreams, and choke the true heart

Until there is nothing behind the mask at all