Mask Maker

Mask Maker

There was a man who built a mask
Being careful; not too fast
Sizing the thing and trying it on
Until one day a small barb cut him

A triviality, the man paid no mind
Continuing his work as he did
But once more he tried it on
And on removal, he saw his thumb

Dozens of tiny holes marked pricks
From the wire he used in crafting
He brushed off the thought
And to clense it he did naught

Days passed by, wire manipulated
More cuts on the man’s face
More pinpricks upon his hands
Signs: the mask nearing completion

On the final day, the man looked into a mirror
What stared back at him wasn’t him
It was the scars of his work, blinking
It was a soul of deceit in rare raw

Don the mask, the man now did
Covering face, obscuring the scars
No matter what design he crafted
He will forever bear scars he made

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