It seems almost true ,
disguised in black satin,
graciously parading,
waddling on dizzy heights .
It is the mask instead
The work of a drunk puppeteer
The icon of the crowds.
They think there is some substance
Behind the frowning pout ,
the slightly alluded smile
the sapient trembling lashes
the far sidelong glance.
Behind the mask a soul ,
There is any truth ,
somewhere ?
Behind the elegant laces ,
Besides the curly hair,
Beyond the glowing skin
The perfect gemmed nail,
There is any presence?
Or it is just the alluring
human and fascinating
slightly morbid attraction ,
the ineluctable impulse
to look deep into void ?
by AM
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