He will tie the strings of the masks each day,
Waiting ‘til the set of suns to remove it from its grasp:
Tugging on skin. First, the heaviest of all,
Abhorring the world for granting him the greatest burden;
Infuriated for not gaining the choice of first breath.
Purity of immense emotion, coursing through newly opened lungs.
Second, the hungriest: Shoving the mask aside to consume life,
Delectable love filling tables, now made just to fill his stomach…
Only to fall to the ground, clutching himself at thus, no longer hungry.
Third, a mask stuck to his face and peeling skin with attempts to remove it;
Falling to his knees, he looks up,
Up to those above him, begging the skies for such a life- for such freedoms.
A wide smile forming beneath, teeth gleaming with a chuckle:
He simply wants what they have.
Fourth, the lies of all veils, God, why create such a mask?
He shall look across the room to eye the other, blood pounding in ears:
Pulsing, drumming, begging needing wanting standing to ask for just-
A dance? But he hides his soul beneath the mask and shall continue to the end.
The fifth, an arrogant fellow of such. His branch most sophisticated,
His tree the strongest but the sprouts below?:
Changing too much for his own approval, despite the brightness of their leaves,
For he was the one recognized by the sun.
Sixth, leather with a hollow beak scented with crimson carnations.
Folds and wrinkles, creaking bones soon to turn dust,
Why would he rise from his wooden chair? Rocking
Back, and forth, back, and forth and back and forth and back and forth and back and forth and back and forth-
Snap. Crack.
But he is not prepared, he is far from hopeful, the sand falling quickly.
He does not wish any longer to wear the last mask:
Number seven.
The previous six shatter and tumble to the ground, now mirrors in the soil.
He looks upon the shards, lungs gasping at the sight:
A man, yet not a man. A demon, yet far from such.
He hungers for the gift of first breath, for the love fed to him,
For the freedoms, for the dance, for the trees and for the petals.
He is not prepared to go,
For wasn’t it once said,
That hell is empty, and all the devils are here?
Perhaps the lenses in this one shall show him truth, or perhaps not.