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?
