Behind Masks Of Glass

Behind Masks Of Glass
© Surazeus
2023 03 27

The ocean flatness of the photograph 
resembles fractal waves of solid thought 
discrete as nameless object self-contained 
in cryptic matrix stretching space to touch 
strange contradiction between real and if 
through second nature of the subterfuge. 

Betrayed by grand narrative of the self, 
not quite traditional as fairy tales, 
the unsubjective mind of faceless who 
subverts expressive passion of false hope 
to now investigate slow ego loss 
with radical critique of tongueless truth. 

Essential to the scene in retrospect, 
she wanders aimless on the campus lawn 
with skeptical temperament of the clown 
dressed as the princess in her tower room 
who watches people on the streets below 
hide from each other behind masks of glass. 

Yet she remains ambivalent to fame 
about ambition of the wonderful 
to sell paradise on the hungry bridge, 
eager to objectify the best friend 
who wins golden prize of the arrogant, 
yet rueful of the need to humble brag. 

Unique depiction of the broken heart 
reveals putative attitude toward how 
we listen to the prophet in the cave 
compete on stage to win the laurel wreath 
that floats on summer breeze down the sea 
as if we are unique in all the world. 

Together in bold enterprise to gain 
tragic sense of how we must accept death, 
concealed in densely suggestive respect, 
we choose to examine the consequence 
inherent in nature of riddle spells 
carved on granite skull of the morning mist. 

Each form of transportation we design 
resembles Ouroboros in the sky 
with diamond eyes of cognitive expanse, 
which substitutes for bold hypocrisies 
because we choose to create our own myth 
as rebel who defies romantic quest. 

We might become the person we are not 
because we think we are the way we talk 
instead of floating on butterfly wings 
when night consumes visions our brains reflect, 
hoping to escape fallacy of faith 
just in time to buy melancholy back. 

If I should diagnose the shadow ghost 
as honest idol of authentic self, 
I would fall into portrait of my soul 
depicting loyal nature of false fame 
so I can walk on the lake shore in peace 
after escaping from the robot game. 

Engaged in civil war of angry boys 
who shoot dark shadows of paranoid fear, 
we cry for angels bleeding on the floor 
whose ghosts are sucked into stories in books, 
compressed as roses red as bloodied dress 
that flutters ego-less on the school lawn.