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!!!
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