The Mask
The Mask
A craftsman crafts such a beatiful thing
To hide himself away,
From the true soul that lies within,
That is rotting and shall decay
Not shall he realise what trouble he's in,
Unable to mend a broken heart,
He is guilty; aquired a sin,
But such a golden harp
From which he plays apon,
One of these days,
His mask starts to kick in now,
For his cries, they certainly pay
We all begin to ask him; "How?"
But none of these thoughts seem to park,
I this coarsely descended state of mind,
From which he did depart.
"Take it off" they begin to say,
But the craftsman simply replies;
"My journey is not over yet;
"So I shall be on my way."
-Ariana Kulikov 2015
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