Donít think that filling masks is an end.
The mind forgets nothing.
Beneath all transparent intangibles
We are but tokens.
Wrapped in existence
We spiral downward
To a carbon-blackened rebirth
What of our soulís flight?
That endless spiral of a falcon
Away from the falconer
Lost beyond hearing and thought
Gone beyond recovery
Finally free to follow its own path.
It leaves behind an empty shell
A mask of man, a vessel,
No more a container of life, but
Empty and crumbling to dust.
Dust to dust as ashes
To the earth it returns
Left only blank nothing,
All feeling gone.
So donít think that filling masks is an end.