MASKS: A POEM

I have always considered myself different like I am standing outside the theatre of life, watching people live. I feel like I have broken some rules and cannot get back in. Like a prodigal, I stand aside and hope that I will be welcomed home when I choose to go back.

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_{pixabay: Josealbafotos}

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MASKS

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A prodigal,
I linger in the darkness,
Let the moon kiss my feet
And the crickets drink my spit.
I let the blunt burn my lips
And smoke, sweet with bliss,
Curl between my ribs.
I fall from the stars to my knees
And bow my head to the puddle
That dances with stars above my head.
I am a king

That cross swords with my shadow
And sneezes on the pearly leaves
Kissed with dew and suckled
Of warmth by the night's glazed gaze.
The stars bear my crown
And the moon, my sceptre.
I drag the red glow
And feel my body float to space,
Soar between the trees.
I am a witch

A name in a child's book;
Wand, hat, cloak and broom,
A symbol of something Gothic
Like a church burning red candles
To pentagrams and dark altar cloth,
Blood dripping into cup from lips,
Flesh leaving breasts for teeth.
I am a sinner

With death scented skin,
Peeling layers upon layers
Of cracked masks, crumbling
Faces of people that I have been.
Spoilt earth leaking worms
And body parts for post morterms,
Morgues and the mortician's knife.
I am a saint

And heaven calls me
To sit, celestial, and pass judgment
On the red ants that bit my hips
And the mosquitoes that drank my blood.
I will watch the cosmos turn on its axis
And dare the aliens to show their faces.
I will dance a jig in a toga eschewing
The raffia skirts of my fathers
Or I will sit beneath a heavenly tree
And espouse the benefits of a blunt
Well smoked to the roach and even then.
I am a prodigal.

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©warpedpoetic, 2019.