TORN FACES

If all of life
is a game of pretend,
let us strip away our masks
to disquieting truths exposed.
The appeasement of humanity
is skinned from crusts of gay hypocrisy
grown tired at party’s end.

If I gaze upon departing compatriots
and see only what is there before me
I bear witness to an elegant void.
Silent slither of time - devouring shadow
corrupted by our elegant mantels.

Youth, is slight - a fleeting disguise.
Like the great swirling veil of luminosity
on tower rocks
cast with no permanence
about the darkling seas.
Forgotten.
At last, no more.

I hunger for the more sacred glimpse
behind that dainty curtain,
yet lack the ugliness to try.