The Mask

by Conor Keane

The Actor lay in a crumpled bed
with a crumpled and uneasy mind.
His resolve cracked, worn down by the grind
of pretending to be, not who he was
but rather the appearance of being decent and just.

He lived his life worrying, not knowing what to do
Never finding the time to utter even a simple I love you
Spending his days in a malaise of uneasy
Never still, in a state of constant queeze

His mask served him well, for many a year
People thought him so happy, so noble, full of cheer,
Little did they know, as he was to blame.
The only thing real, was the ink of his name.

He knew not who he was now, so sad byt so true
Masks have a way of affixing to you,
Not just a visage, or disguise of the day
Sometimes they form a part
They don't peel away.

He lies awake once more
Eyes always on the door
Awaiting the figure enrobed.
Memories cloud him, a mist of illwill
He's alone in this world
His spirit long since killed.

He tries with no luck to look on himself,
But this is a mask that stays not on the shelf
A perfect fit, too perfect perhaps,
He wore it so long, decades elapsed.

Watch out for masks, though they seem your friends
They have a terrible habit of staying on til the end.
And when you looking in the mirror and see the dead eyes
and realize that the grin is your permanent smile.

This is a warning to the faint of the heart, watch out for the masks
They'll tear your life apart.

ConorKeane's picture

Conor is a law student from Galway, Ireland who writes poetry, prose and fiction. His influences include Robert Frost, Philip Larkin, Stephen King and Simon Armitage.

Last updated May 26, 2011