Poem: Hamlet of Masks

 

Hamlet of Masks

 

to create or not,

to suffer the shames and

stings from blooms of realm

below a staid-bound surface;

or to abdicate truth and feeling,

and plaster a bland fear

over the trek of Veracity’s hunt?

such is the pivotal itch,

hinged on the closure or consciousness  

of unreadable dreams:

would they release a time-

shorn hell more cutting than

than the dull shear of clock hands;

or proffer a revel of lovely purpose,

transcending the fluff and

numb serenity of ordered sheep?

this is the riddle, this mystagogue,

whose eyes face to mock me,

loomed in the mirror,

if i dare raise my overgone skull

and ponder such contours and cavities,

such dizzy tunnels that carve out beds of

seductive yet treacherous play,

affairs misty of motive,

when i struggle to ride them

or circumvent. 

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