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Wordsmith Oct 2018
Day by day I fritter away
Upholding decorum as best I may
Meet me as you meet — reserved somebody
Leave me as you leave — dull nobody

Dreary, weary, listless, spiritless
A resting spirit clamours to emerge
Unguided, wild, free and seeking
Boldly defying reserved somebody

But how, just how do I unleash this defiant spirit
For it is to cross all conceivable limits
Oh but a mask, of course a mask!
The perfect accessory for this task!

Careless of propriety
Boastful of daring
Acting against my will
Or in tandem with it?

This mask — just now I can't discern
Ponder I do with great concern
Does it shield my identity
Or render truth to it?

So now just what fun in masks
One may ponderously ask

Masks, bring to life fantasy
Fantasy, a realm of our reality
Reality, wherein lies multiplicity
Multiplicity, within each individuality
This poem takes a different view on a mask. Does it shield who we are? Or does it allow us to be who we truly are?

Isn't it ironic fantasy too is part of human reality? A realm revealing psychological truths.

Masks addresses the various facets of a personality. Our fragmented identities. Multiplicity in individualities.

Halloween is round the corner. If you had the chance, who would be the Hyde to your Jekyll?
Kat Aug 2018
There is nothing I can give to you that is not past or future.
When my both selves fight, they throw insults at each other like an unhappy couple.
    “You are already gone!” the one says,
    “You are never here” says the other.

And I sing then. I never let any note slip away into silence. Songs in which I’m a magician,
right before the grand finale,
the last vanishing act.
I close my eyes and slowly slice away layers of skin,
so I can become less and less,
so I can sail away on the river without an end,
it’s flow imposing my soul with the authoritative demand to move forward.

There is no river.
I am pitifully human so there is no alchemy that transforms loss into beauty.
Ihe things I have built, I built myself. Like this house of memories
with it’s sole window. The moon shines through it every night.
What an unperfect image,
what my heart endures everytime I reach out only to feel
solance turning into a hell-flamed sky.
The darkness is gone like I will be gone
like everything has gone forever.

There is also no house.
Only the pale waves of a grey-winter sea,
        dualism of being and not-being
a perfect symmetry,
a beautiful fragile balance.
The ascetic medieval saint
Noticed Mr. Chesterton
Is indeed all skin and bones
Much like other religious men

But if you look quite carefully
You may become surprised
For in his evident torture
You see he opens wide his eyes

His gaze it ventures forth
A world is what he sees
He kneels as Christians do
But when he rises from his knees

He walks upon the Earth
Sees creatures large and small
And if his name is Francis
He loves them each and all

We have mysteries within
I can feel them too
I revere true Buddhist wisdom
No dualism between me and you

But Chesterton is quite right
A mystery most profound
When we open wide our eyes
Being itself indeed abounds

The very Soul of the Universe
Still yet another name for God
Contracts and then creates
Gives birth to things so odd

Hummingbirds and herons
Chartres cathedral found in France
My uncle Marty, a man for others
Beautiful women who love to dance

We awaken in a world
We ourselves did not create
We gaze in wonder for a brief moment
And with joy we patiently wait

What will we discover?
Are cosmic seas near distant stars?
Do they also teem with Fish?
Is their Creator One like ours?
such cruelty, but also kindness
    startling beauty, baffling blindness
              faithful in my fashion.

      No to fatalism, no to indifference
Yes to vegetarianism, Silence, non-dualism
                    Great Compassion

— The End —