Poems by

It’s called a Face

a poem by Porthos

A fragile piece
Of skin upon
The rigid bone:
Fingers trace
The cheek’s high ridge
And feel, beneath
The skin, the stone.

Dancers step
With careful poise
And turn around
Unspoken words:
Angels, dragons
Move beside me,
Children, wolves,
Bright-feathered birds.

Eyes are gems
Cut superbly,
Giving nothing
Real away:
Faces silk
Or painted metals,
Nothing but
The parts we play.

Though in time
We strip those masks off,
Bare our faces
To clear view,
I may see you
Clear and open
I will know
No more of you.

Here’s the mask
That I am wearing,
Careful words,
Thoughts in their place,
Feelings hid:
Skin painted lightly
Over bone:
It’s called a face.