The Mask on the Masquerade.

In the end, he dies
wearing a disguise.
His lifetime was masked with pity,
Wrapped with dirt, gifted with lies,
A false diffidence and insincere timidity,
He could pass for a wimp,
And couldn’t cross bold men’s street,
So it seemed.
But one day his heart was read,
And an old inscription found that says,
“Do not kindle my wrath”,
A raining laughter, the village gave,
Ignorance and mockery, his new scheme of day,
But calm he remained,
With an intense harmony,
and pretentious timidity,
Soon, he wore the inscription on his forehead,
Provocation strolled passed him each second,
He took breath therapies,
Counting fingers to keep calm,
With intense monk meditations,
And greeted with a salaam,
His mask was affixed with a stingy passion,
Never to show his ugly skin,
But between his heart and conscience,
Was a tug of war,
That killed him inside,
Guilt and lies salted his sores,
Uncertain of how long he could door
The entrance and exit to his true self,
And when the guilt worms were done,
And hopes checklist marked none,
He decided to succumb,
To the coffins call.

Lardo