Sunday, 10 May 2015

The Fourth Face



There are layers,
Covering your soul.
Layers, meant to conceal;
To deceive.
Three masks, to be worn,
In this masquerade party.


The first—a facade,
A shimmering charade
To be exhibited,
Before the outside world.
A smiling portrait
Which hides, deep, dark
Secrets and griefs.
Beneath the curve
Of the lips.


The second, put up
Before family and friends
And the people you love.
The one full of
Pretentious admiration
And respect.


The third, worn before
Your own selves.
This one with smudges,
Of self-righteousness,
Of broken dreams,
Of things you wanted to be,
Things you could not be.
Worn to console yourself.


The fourth, your real face,
Lies, buried, deep inside
A grave.
A grave filled with sins.
Where your frail soul
Cries, lying naked,
Away from all phoniness,
Crumbling, under the burden
Of life.
Of all those masks.

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