Masquerade

I’ve heard it said that life’s a stage, And we, mere players, bound and caged— Each mask a role, a crafted guise, To dance beneath unseeing eyes.

I wear these masks in measured play: Husband, father, friend by day. But none reveal the hidden face, The self that drifts in shadowed space.

When mirror calls and masks are shed, Only emptiness stares back instead— A mystery vast, both dark and deep, A chasm where my secrets sleep.

Who am I, beneath these roles? This hollow shape, this fractured whole? Am I meant to see, to ever know What waits below, what hides below?

Could my soul bear its raw, true sight, Or would it crumble in that light— Dissolve to dust, or bend, or break, Too fragile for its own heartache?

So should I cling to this charade, Accept the lie the world has made? Could peace reside in such deceit, Pretending wholeness feels complete?

But I know it’s false, this painted play, A hollow act that fades away. And yet, the truth—unseen, unknown— Is darker still, a silent stone.

Perhaps I’m emptiness, mere form, A fleeting ghost through life’s brief storm. An avatar, an echo lost, From nothing born, to nothing tossed.

Strangely, though, this fate feels light— To come from dark, return to night. A weightless drift, a dreamless sleep, No need to question, feel, or keep.

For what is left when masks fall free? A nameless faceless eternity.