The Mask

A poem for a friend.

The mask. The mask he wears. The emotionless gaze. The empty heart. The invisible tears. The devil-angel. The wrist scars. The angle over a hanged corpse. The pain. His pain. My heart sings a soft song to his, a lulaby, a sing of comfort. Take my tears, make them yours. The emotions are buried deeply. My hand is pressed against his neck, holding him to me. My shoulders shake and the tears silently roll down my cheeks. I'm crying for him too. Then I slowly pull back and look into his emotionless eyes. I wipe my tears and put them onto his cheeks. It looks like he was the one crying now. "Take them," I try to say. In that moment, the mask is broken and I can see the whirl pool of emotions flooding his eyes. Almost there....then it all fades with an interruption and the mask conceals what once was. Let me heal your broken heart, my child, my friend, my love. If you are beyond repair, the broken fragments are better than nothing at all. One cannot heal a broken heart without all the pieces. The pain. His pain. The angel over a hanged corpse. The wrist scars. The devil-angel. The invisible tears. The empty heart. The emotionless gaze. The mask he wears. The mask.