Masks, countless, upon my face-
Grains of sand on an endless shore.
The friend;
The lover;
The son;
Only to name a few.
Recounting them all, would take time.
All of it.
The jester;
The socialite;
The villain;
A fitting veneer
For every occasion.
It was always like this.
Each day, each month, each year,
Constantly adding
New faces to the palette.
Layers, over layers, over layers.
Sometimes, I wonder
What remains lurking below.
Even these very lines,
After all,
Are merely written by
A self-conscious costume.
Perhaps there is nothing left.
Perhaps there was nothing ever.
A blank canvas.
A white sheet.
A gaping void.
A concerning thought, that.
Yet still, I sometimes wonder,
What the true face beneath looks like.
Is it one of beauty?
Is it one appalling?
Does it even exist?
Or is that, too, yet another facade?
And you thought
You saw through the cracks...
Darling. You are not so special.
[Originally written by the player of Crow (Derakoth)]
