Poem From The Face Of The Mask (Artwork)

Unbelievable, this face of paper and grey. Unbelievable, this

Fa├žade of perfection that mirrors our intent

As (dis)honourable members of narcissism. What life

Is in this mask? None. What life-story could this

Clever mask create for you that you could not

Create for yourself? Are you that flawed and insec-

ure in your own mind? Desolation is the sole

Inheritance of those born to desolation.

Pain is all that remains for those that

Give nothing but pain. Rage begets

Rage and sorrow

Begets pain. Meaning

Is derived from words but words do not

Denote meaning. We struggle so valiantly to create

Meaning for ourselves, but not at the cost of

Our individuality. We are so surrounded by

Words that sound profound that we have lost our

Basic capacity to discern any form of truth for

Ourselves. That is sad. We are the self-styled

Lords of creation, and we don't even know who we are.

That is sad. This paper face, covered in words, is probably

Closer to salvation than any of us were or

Will be. We've been in a downwards spiral for

Centuries, but no one seems willing to realize it.

We have nowhere to go but down, because

We are still the ones who caused the fall

From grace. We are still the ones of

Ignorance and bliss. We are still falling

In our suicidal leap from the precipice

Of paradise. There is no control in this

Descent, my friends, my poor doomed

Friends. I honour those who try to

Turn it around, those who try to

Block the hole, and bridge

The gap, and everything else

But it's several centuries

Too late. We have the tiger

By the tail now, and there

Is no way in hell that

We are ever going

To be able to let

Go. Peace.