The Mask

It clings to me
Like dust
Or dried Krazy-Glue,
Coating my face with bony white residue,
Painted smiles and painted tears,
But you can't tell, can you?

I see blue,
Blue and red,
Red and black,
Black and white,
Every sight,

Who am I?
What am I?
It's hard to say;
The mirror reveals so little.

People look at me strangely,
When they dare to look.
Do they know?
Have they figured out my secret?

My face itches.
My eyes burn.
Someone get this damn thing off me!
But you can't, can you?

George Chadderdon © 1993