A mask on a scarecrow
An alibi for an ant on a hill
A sleep for the slumbered
A reality where nothing is real
Can a nobody mascaraed as a no-one?
Can a rock mascaraed as a stone?
Can a lonely man mascaraed as a lone man?
Can a mask be a mask on its own?
Or are masks not made to deceive others
Or to convince others of who we are
But to trick our own selves into believing
That beneath our mask is something more
Life’s a figure beneath our covers
and when we pull upons our sheet's slack
Underneath we'll just discover
Our empty bed looking back
As dust is a puppet,
to the wind that blows,
It thinks it’s alive until the wind finally goes.
So what am I, I wonder,
beneath the names, I don’t deserve,
To the dead gods I am ‘dust’,
and I am ‘food’ to the worms.