The clever building

Sometimes, the cynic in me gets cranky. I don't like putting on a façade, but when everyone does it, it's easy not to feel bad.

If a building were torn down, who would know?

The same spades that laid the foundation

might be used again to destroy it.

The flowers there that once bloomed so bright and colored

would only be seen again in black-and-white photographs --

for artistic effect, of course.

And people -- people who might have once graced the building,

walked its hallowed halls with those they’ll fondly remember

well, they forget; or else they die --

and of them nothing remains but their accounts and records,

should they have chosen to keep them.

This building might not have existed at all.

And so, being made of the very same components:

rather flesh and blood than brick and stone,

we hide. A dab of makeup,

a carefully cut garment, a crafted mask; 

they all conceal, correct, and create

a new, flawless, beautiful being.

Smile �" the camera’s waiting;

show some teeth, oh, we’re so clever,

so witty, so calculated in our actions.

We make fools of everyone who walks through our doors.

Yet, the night falls as we close up shop,

feeling the blood pulsing against the scars,

the spades digging deeper.

In the now empty halls, our laughter echoes, rebounds.

Looks like the joke’s on us.