If I were to rip off my mask, my facade, the disguise that I don,
Would I like what I see when I gaze in a mirror at my true nature?
Would my will be so weak that I would cringe, or am I strong
enough that I would be able to behold the ugliness of its wrong?
This mask that I wear, which somehow conceals my soul
and hides my iniquities from the shame of sudden discovery.
But I feel nothing and everything, all from this mask I cajole
to aid me in a requiem of silent apathy of no possible recovery.
A journey of solitary confinement must I lead, an illusory life must I assume.
Over my head there floats a singular purpose, one that is to remain there and loom
above me like an ominous reminder of my sullen fate and it occupies the spot above
my burdened head, sitting there, gloating with an unseen malevolence devoid of love.