Mask

A silvery mask

Presented with gleam,

To a world unseen,

To people that can’t see past themselves.

 

A wintery cold, a frost’s breath,

One must make warmth

Or else invite a type of death.

 

Questioning still the maker of my mind,

I glance to and fro, listening to the rumbling talk.

Shifting details and painted new facades

A mask for a masquerade’s ball.

 

One does as others do, if not for meaning, then for company;

A twisted world made right by another’s eyes

A person shaped and molded by.

 

A quest still to be the same person from the inside out,

Yet ultimately making from the outside in

Which is better? The question lies therein,

A questioning force of a butter’s wheel

 

Questing forth to a night of zeal,

where masks are placed in the place of a true façade.

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