We all wear masks upon our faces,
Painted sheathes to hide disgraces,
Painstakingly forged in the crucible of our souls.
Some paint them red, some paint them black,
Each mask crafted to hide some lack,
And obfuscate the weeping of the soul.
Upon our beings do these cloaks hang,
Muting our voices, causing us pangs,
But dutifully performing their given roles.
Will someone free me from this hell?
Must I forever my own breath smell?
Trapped behind this dreaded wall, so dank and so cold.
So I shall rip my mask asunder,
Though perhaps folly, or foolish blunder,
Naked I shall therefore live, exposed, alone, and cold.
I may freeze and I may die,
But I can no longer live a lie.
Lest I not live before I die, naked in the cold.
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