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Behind The Mask - 04/05/2001

In the dusty attic space of my psyche,
amid the trunks of dormant traits
and bric-a-brac of my subconscious,
a grubby tidemark stains the walls, hovering
above the plimsoll line of conscience.
Evidence that the oily waters of iniquity
once flooded this place, washing away
all noble intent and scrupulous virtue.

Though the floodwater has abated,
and the grime of unconscionable deeds
has been scoured away by the agents of regret.
The scene is constantly under threat
from the swollen river of transgression.
When the torrent intensifies I steel myself,
sandbag the doorways and windows
and retreat to the moral high ground.

Monsoons of weakness create this deluge
aspects of my persona that I hide away,
imprisoned like a disfigured Victorian relative
or my mirror image encased in an iron mask.
For if my seraph cast her eyes upon the storm
I would be cast adrift to drown in misdemeanour
bereft of the strength that keeps me anchored.
 
© Nicholas Vosper 2001