They

They weep and laugh at me.

They revel in my downfall.

They need me to live,

these faces of wrath.

I may denounce them whenever...

but they need me..

to love them?

Their satisfactions and desires are moulded

by my discarded bits and ideals.

The masked men of a real life they peep

through

horizontal slits.

They weep and laugh at my losing my mask.

They feel burdened with my loss,

while their sense of bereavement floats

upon

winds of shame.

Masks never did have a soul...