Dripping sweat, from the days slaving away
Carving, the blood and frustration into a mask
Each chip, which shaves and thins, is paid in flesh
This facade can capture many faces, or no face at all
But when placed upon the brow, the craftsman disappears
For in this tribute to false faces, the true being surfaces
I have never known myself, until I dawned this mask
I breathe air which has never been my own, I am alive.
Jan 10, 2017
Jan 10, 2017 at 10:23 AM UTC
Dripping sweat, from the days slaving away
Carving, the blood and frustration into a mask
Each chip, which shaves and thins, is paid in flesh
This facade can capture many faces, or no face at all
But when placed upon the brow, the craftsman disappears
For in this tribute to false faces, the true being surfaces
I have never known myself, until I dawned this mask
I breathe air which has never been my own, I am alive.
