The Mask Maker

 Mask Maker

He stitches and connects
Pins and needles collect,
The mask that never fades,
the wounds that won't be covered by band aids.

Bondaged wrists,
Painting designs with a swish
Molding exquisite figures.
Without the use of pictures.

To hide a face
That only a mother would embrace.,
Obscuring the mutated surface
that causes a child's grimace.

The masker abides
within the shadow he lies,
Not a peck or a word,
intentions obscured.

Threading the needle,
by the light of a candle.
Taking his time,
as the moment arrives.

Measuring and stretching,
The canvas is drying.
Stained by spots of blood.
Hard Work, Paid and Done.
A mask for the hunt,
he finishes with a grunt.

In the shadows he waits,
a costume in display
His eagerness is betrayed
by the impatience of a sway,

He's up to the task,
armed with an axe.
In the hallow of the tree,
they spot him and flee.
With no where to go,
with fear in their flow.
Escape they had tried,
caught and skinned alive.

Molding a cast
a newly sculpted mask,
finding twisted glee,
wearing his master piece,

Wayward nature,
inescapable disaster.
ask your so called Creator,
who made the Mask Maker