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The Maker
The maskmaker slaves in his usual way
Crafting by night the faces of day,
Folding the skin and molding the clay
And holding the dead gaze of sunlight away.
With care he paints a waxy smile -
A favored face he’s worn for miles
With threadbare eyes and wilted brow -
Enough to fool the fools for now.
I’d wondered long – but dared not ask –
What face he wore beneath the mask.
One day he let the worn mask fall
Beneath the face, no face at all.
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