He kept the masks on
his whole life long.
Even he didn't know his own face.
The
one she loved,
who they both thought he was
- he shed it like
a snake!
His new skin didn't fit well.
It was burdened
with cold and stony features
She loved from a sense of duty,
but tired of wetnursing
this adult person
when she
herself needed a daddy.
He rose to the occasion...
Then
came a procession
of soldiers of various types,
a child,
teacher, criminal, preacher, Master
of
the dark
- yearning, loving, longing
...to little
response.
Then came monsters, demons
each scarier than the
last,
till he'd peeled off all
masks down to the skull,
but never found his own face.
…only a corpse of what he once was.
First attempt at a Phantom poem. I know, it's very depressing. TT
