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