precious pain like stained glass
fragile yet beautiful
cast aside your mask she says
gleefully tossing hers aside across the room
it lands with a bounce
upon the heart shaped bed
rose coloured glasses in the temple of doom
never in fashion you should know this by now
peeling and peeling she removes layer after layer
yet the task is never ending and the masks are countless
her head swims with numbers backwards and forwards
left and right ~ sideways and inside out
exhausted she collapses in a corner
with yet another masque in her hand
and one upon her face, and with a heaving sigh
she glances - at the masques all over the place
in disbelief shaking her head
"These cannot all be mine"
she peels another and another adding them to the mountain of masques
in the middle of the room and begins to cry.....
29OCT 2011
(c) all rights reserved
There are days she feels like she's in a fishbowl with no water.
She struggled through and survived, healed from a long journey of pain and bad marriages, removed many masques...Still more remain to be removed.
Still she feels alone in this dry and barren fishbowl.
Where is her identity?
When will that last mask be removed to reveal her true-self to the world??
Will it ever be safe enough for her to remove the very last one?
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