The Mask
by
Robert H. Dirr Jr.
Cobalt tears from a crying moon crash against a window in another room,
Bleeding elastic brightness through slats of aging blinds and my quiet mind
Is alive with notions and imagery of you and I, wrapped in a blanket of clouds.
Boulders of feathered pillows mold themselves around a gentle sleeping head,
And the bonfire of fanned red hair is as intoxicating as the finest claret wine.
By the sterile lights of neon days, she sustains an overcast living, but at night
She stands behind footlights and strangers and peers and friends, then bends
To curtsy and remove the mask of artistic invention as people stand and cheer.
When the glitter has faded and it's just we two and the candlelight bathes her
Undressed face I feel much more than I see or can say, dear angel of mercy.
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