It hung on a hook,
on the wall near the door.
Quick access for a visit to the “outer world”,
that mask fit my soul like a kiss.
Unexpected door bells caused panic and confusion
that sorted themselves,
as the mask told me what I must do.
Inside was stark,
with rooms both bright and dark,
horrible, yet ecstatic,
threatening, yet titillating.
In one spartan tower
the poet suffered
the sure and certain knowledge
that he should never write again.
In the ballroom, the grande dame
told all what to believe,
how to behave.
The lower level prison
held one who had forgotten
all he ever knew.
The madman smiled,
striding corridors of opportunity,
and planning...planning...
The hermit meditated,
becoming something completely strange,
and different,
from his enlightened self.
The acceptable mask
awaits on a hook,
on the wall near the door.
The occupants are restless:
which shall don the “acceptable” mask,
and face the world?
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