The Masks

“The Masks”

My friend; cherished and distant.
My love, delicate and hesitant.
You speak so well when you are silent,
In the face of what passions from me flow—
And in those flames, I know
Such loneliness as I never knew I could long for,
I never knew I could adore
One so far that I could press, so lightly:
My touch upon beauty concealed beside me.

That precious mask, I’ve seen you wear
Paints a picture sweet and fair.
But the face that you do not show
Is the face I am glad to know.
What pain makes you this mask dawn?
It is that pain to which I am drawn.
Parting on our separate stages,
Returning, animals, to their cages.

In shattered daydreams, we harmonize
The same stage as I see within your eyes.
The light is cast upon our scenes,
The curtain rises—the choir sings
A song of woe and of illusion
As we lay our masks in position.
But still, I wonder, what goes beyond the scene
What these masks we adorn might mean.
For, when I leave the spot
I forget the melody and the plot.
My visage falls, and you ask
“Why, why do you not wear this mask.
Why do you the act perform no more?
The face beneath is so obscure.”

No answer I can give would explain
That from you, from this pain
I wish to no mask be bound:
I long for my wounds to be found
And mended by some future heart,
And from the actor, stage and prop depart.

© 2022 Marten Hoyle