Glass Masks

Her open wound,

still leaking liquid life,

bleeds beneath her masquerade.

 

“It’s complicated,” she says.

As she tells her tale,

rife with betrayal,

she drops her mask of glass.

 

Shattered shards fill the room,

as picturesque promises in bloom

fracture upon the floor of frayed fidelity.

 

Love is scorched by the sun of neglect,

Her strength is not made perfect

through the weakness of her tears.

 

Her sisters of similar fate

gather like hens to incubate

the hatching eggs of bitterness,

soon to break.

 

“You don’t need a man,” they say.

 

One by one they break their seals,

to speak of pain their past reveals.

“Strength” and “Beauty” are the names

they give their masks to hide the shame.

 

Lies

 

Like little girls with wide eyes

living in sand castles on salt-water beaches.

Inevitably, the tide will rise.

 

The sanguine print from Romeo’s fist

creates a carbon copy from face to heart

as castles of sand erode.

Love absolves itself of all.

 

To her, love’s scent is like a rose,

Always pretty,

Never guilty.

 

So she stubbornly collects her hypocrisy

and incarcerates her pain

behind the bars of her smile

©  Brian Evans for Wisdom’s Quill, January, 2015

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BE