He wears his falseness as if in fatigue

Like the new old décor of a bad Victorian theme pub

A nostalgia of bland notoriety, hideous, perhaps contagious

For it is indiscriminate and without compromise in its counterfeit

Lying in wait, eagerly in ambush, hidden by a thought

A thin antiquated distraction, a solitary mutilation of identity

Deflecting interest in amplified displacement into delirious disguise

Re-emerging in distraction, pestering, problematic,

Destabilizing directness in its ubiquitous imaginary lie

It is a realization that one is all too aware off

Yet despite this knowledge cannot help but conspire in its captivating complicity

I am fearful to look upon him directly,

For in so doing I may discover in his open masque

Improbable truths about myself, as foul as any slander