It’s poetry month and so…

The Mask
Author unknown

Always a mask
Held in the slim hand whitely
Always she had a mask before her face—

Truly the wrist
Holding it lightly
Fitted the task:
Sometimes however
Was there a shiver,
Fingertip quiver,
Ever so slightly—
Holding the mask?

For years and years and years I wondered
But dared not ask
And then—
I blundered,
Looked behind the mask,
To find
Nothing—
She had no face.

She had become
Merely a hand
Holding a mask
With grace.

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