The Masquerader

About a man who always wears a mask (a poem about identity)

There is a man who wears a mask
He walks the streets alone in the dark
Perhaps he is horribly misshapen and warped
Some terrible accident or so we are warned

Under the street lights warm and mellow
His dress suggests some white-collared fellow
And yet he stalks the desolate streets
Where little chance of anyone to meet

The children whisper of a monster
Adults ignore them but still they ponder
Why such a man would wear a disguise
What awful things could he need to hide?

So I decided to set things straight
At the corner of the street I sat to wait
I listened that night for him to pass
And asked him why he wore that mask

He stopped and turned his cardboard face
Raising his hand to that hideous place
And snatched it away so I could stare
That’s when I saw there was nothing there

There is still a man who wears a mask
Who always walks alone in the dark
I have never felt it was my place
To tell the people that he had no face