Sunday, April 6, 2014

Reality

Like Midas and his gold
     the masks turn into mirrors,
But I see them still as mysteries
     cos’ I can’t see masks I wear.

It’s far too bright, my being’s light,
     to gaze upon directly, so these
Forms that take the fire's place
     are the only thing I know.

To the mind they are false,
     to the heart they are death,
But how could I ever take them off,
     knowing they aren't there to begin with?

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