Fine Lines

(Walker Martin)

I’ve wandered roads to every land
I’ve worn a face of doubt
it weighs like sin,
it holds me in,
I search for some way out
I came upon a chest of masks
a peddler sat beside it,
“Try one please,
your pain will ease
if, Sire, you choose to hide it.”
I touched each mask
to feel its craft and puzzled,
asked him plain,
“Be this some ruse,
how does one choose
when all look quite the same?”
“Try each in turn to know their worth,
mere sight ‘twill not reveal.
Try Cherub’s glee, brash victory,
their gift is what you feel.”
I tried them all with ardent heart.
Each face dance grew quite dear,
in passing time, each felt sublime
yet none could quell my fear.
I gave sigh in chagrined disbelief
“Old man, be this my fate?”
“Fear such as yours, will stay its course,
but you need a mask of hate.”
“This last one here,
I’ve saved for you,
you’ve but to put it on.