The Mask of the Soul

A soul drowning in the darkness of anguish.
Alone, whispering for help from above —
silently angry that no one is listening.

Searching for light from any source offered,
determined to look outward,
yet blind to the power that sleeps within.

To acknowledge the truth and wisdom of the ages,
yet stay chained by the mind’s own illusions.
To forget how easily perspective
could shift the weight of everything.

The mask was once protection —
a barrier for reasons long forgotten.
Now it clings to the skin,
and the wearer has forgotten
how to live unadorned.

To feel death while one lives,
to walk alive yet dead —
the paradox of a soul lost to itself.

Is there no reason to release one
from this self-made prison of heart and mind?
The jailer and the jailed,
the tormented and the tormentor —
one and the same.

Black is white.
Good is evil.
Death is life.
All divides dissolve,
and one no longer stands apart from the other.

What is the answer?
What is the cure for the dis-ease
that has darkened the soul?

Ramblings of a man in search of peace —
crying inside, unheard,
tired of the self-imposed cancer of the mind,
yet helplessly feeding the very beast that wounds him.
Fanning the fire that devours
his last sanctuary of safety.

No one can help,
for no one sees.
No one knows,
for no one looks.
Why should they?
Everyone has their own lives to live.

Whispers cannot be heard.
Silence is just that.

But when the mask begins to slip,
when illusion frays at its edges,
then they will see —
they will all know
what has lived beneath the surface all along:

The sadness.
The darkness.
The torment
that was always there,
in plain sight —
now revealed,
and now too late.