A mask on a scarecrow

An alibi for an ant on a hill

A sleep for the slumbered

A reality where nothing is real

 

Can a nobody mascaraed as a no-one?

Can a rock mascaraed as a stone?

Can a lonely man mascaraed as a lone man?

Can a mask be a mask on its own?

 

Or are masks not made to deceive others

Or to convince others of who we are

But to trick our own selves into believing

That beneath our mask is something more

 

Life’s a figure beneath our covers

and when we pull upons our sheet's slack

Underneath we'll just discover

Our empty bed looking back

 

 

As dust is a puppet,

to the wind that blows,

It thinks it’s alive until the wind finally goes.

So what am I, I wonder,

beneath the names, I don’t deserve,

To the dead gods I am ‘dust’,

and I am ‘food’ to the worms.