Poetry: The Mask

Hurt. I think it all hurt;
Those eyes gleam and flicker and search

onward; Hidden views and painful dues none so curt,

And below the frown, a clown with a shadow torch made of birch.

Willed-frame expression gave over,

to a dreary landscape; Wonder how I do come back

Such ill-fated dreams and streams and clover,

I run over and over till ground is black.

Terrace face with a destiny somewhere found,

Pretense that I make or break while I shift

As built on high, a domed filled palace sound.

Borders build borders- none suspect I lift.

The rows of tears flow to and fro,

Irrigate and irritate the facade of my mask

To this moment-dark eyes give a hollow glow,

Formation of rock- it really doesn’t ask.

So teeming with clouds it is a thought,

Phantoms burst out laughter for which is absurd

To torment is what can soundly be bought,

“Rush away all the rush away”- never far away they heard.

So I command this realm of mask and dirt,

Graveled and traveled on none spy I suspect

Patted down and ran aground, as death not so curt,

Slow to wear as none compare quite too direct.

A blood spun face I give to bear,

To sinewy clutches lost freed up in this mask,

I bear to wear this solemn affair,

Renew the hold- God on my soul-This Is All I Ask.

Note: I wrote this on Christmas Eve after a car repossession 10 years ago. It wasn't the car that inspired it.

I'll try to lighten up in the next few posts...It's summer for crying out loud!!!