The Mask on the Masquerade.

Its a smoked-ashed’ puffed color of cigar,
Trigger 一 a fiend masked of a rhetorical spinjitzu.
What good is the marking of the dead?
The head, is the only place that holds voodoo
and hides the skeletons of the tail.
The mask chases ghosts with a spirit whip
and leaves fear to hide in a shadow of hush.
Neither man nor spirits wear the wrinkles of time,
against all odds, look passed the old rhyme
Arrest the haven that shells the face,
nostalgia is for the weak who still bear hearts
hallow is a night when the house built it
over auctions of bricks and clay.
Open your closets and free this bird
till time takes time to treat them tough.
A hero wears a cape to cover his failed karma
does his face burn into dances directed?
I know for once, real masquerades never fit the khaki,
death to them is not and ever delayed.
Into the abyss of secrets do they become an emoji.

Ruddapoet [TRCP]