All wear masks at some point in life
When the crossroad is reached
A fork in the path with a signpost,
One hand pointing right, the other left
A sharp awakening, as stark as the bone-white sign
And a choice must be made: it is then the mask is donned
Or it creeps up softly, crouches by the bed when they dream alone
Rotting lips touch the delicate ear, and a word,
A seed, is born in their mind
And the mask is created
They build the masks themselves
Their desire to be who they are told they should be
Cuts the shape, and chooses the color, of their prisons
Pink with blood ribbons for the girl of sweet words
Dull, brown cardboard, for the woman who dreamed
A grinning, nightmare visage for the timid man
And a sharp hawk-face, for the boy who always said yes
All bear these masks, because in this world,
There is little hope of living without one
To smoother dreams, and choke the true heart
Until there is nothing behind the mask at all