It seems the poet in me is running free again. Sometimes inspiration strikes in interesting places…the bath is a good one for me. So here you go…
The Mask
It could be made of paper,
Thin, and light…
Or it could be made of sorrow,
And shedding it is like trying to avoid the night.
It could be made of gold,
So precious, and unyielding…
Or it could be made of fear,
And it’s cycle…never ending.
But the mask some call a smile.
Not a shield,
Or a sword,
Or armour.
Hiding every last scar from view.
The mask some call a joke.
Not a tower,
Or a box,
Or a safe,
Protecting what’s precious to you.
The fragile heart and the trembling soul
So wounded, and scarred, and bereft.
And the loneliness that lingers
Like a shadow, a spectre, a ghost.
But there is one thing that you must know,
This thing that so few of us see.
You can wear the mask, my dear.
But it does not need to wear thee…
Andrea Bramhall 