Shape shifting poets

Multiple are handles they use, perhaps a mere whim, yet a ruse, which patterns of the mind betray, of scents which from their ink so ooze. We smile and let them have their way, as masks they don to make their day, until the time their soul’s stripped bare, which is when they sit down to pray. Egos are strange, handle with care for perhaps it’s just for a dare, though dawn’s light cannot veil the sun, as all of us are well aware.