The Mask: A Hero Of The Bliss Poem by Frank Hill

I sit collapsed, as a desperate prayer,
At the crashing gates of your solemn pose,
Peddling my pieces as a compromise,
As; ‘choices that can never be chose’,

For your beauty beats, to the strung patrons vain,
And a hidden face, in its thunder, won’t fade,
And me, my emotions, can’t help but pursue,
A silent death in its fruitful parade,

And so, the heaping toll, of your encoring mind,
Will reflect this world as merely a threat,
Not from those forgotten, nor you deem rotten
But from those you cannot beget,

But, still I behold, you not in brilliant disguise,
Nor as vestment of what they possess fair,
But as someone who, can shift in those lies,
And be more human than acting could bear,

For others pretend, the straining hand;
Becoming slaves to the altars they drew,
And even though not rotten, begot or forgotten,
They will be understood by so many,
But really loved by so few,

For our masks are our souls, our heroes of bliss,
Growing strange when fame preaches ill,
But oh! the glory! when they deface the beauty,
Of a single heart that’s been taken by will!

And so I behold, them not as brilliant disguise,
Nor as vestments of what you possess fair,
But as heroes of bliss, which inhales all of this,
Pain, that no person should bare.