Children flock to the masks
as if they were stars fallen
to earth, glowing with
the memory of stage lights,
each mask tender and worn
like an old prayer, relics
of forgotten tragedies, heavy
with the laughter of ghosts.
They slip them on, snug
as dreams, unaware
of the weight that roots
the mask to skin, melding
with bone, sewing itself
to their faces with threads
of invisible need. They run
into the night, their laughter
clanging in the hollow air.
No one tells them that this
is the final act, that the mask
is more than costume, that it
becomes the face it covers.
Even when they are called
to shed their roles, their
hands find nothing to lift,
no line between flesh
and mask, the world
narrowing to eyes frozen
behind a curtain that will
never fall, their faces
forever rehearsing a role
they never meant to play.