My Poetry. The Unworn Face.

I beg you to attempt to truly see,
The terrifying absence hiding underneath the mask on me.
It is a void, eyeless and staring, utterly cold,
Yet fixed upon my face, it remains defiant and bold.

The mask is deserted of all human feeling, unable to read
The slightest touch of ambition, harmony, or the curse of greed.
Were you to wrench this silent, vacant shield of mine,
And lay its cold form upon an empty shrine,

The true face hiding behind it would immediately begin to decay,
Its fragile, unseen features would instantly depreciate;
But the dark, proud mask itself would live forever on,
A chilling symbol, prepared endlessly to re-create.

© William Sinclair Manson 2025