by Deborah Guzzi
Different masks I faced upon each day of trying. Within this shell, I’ve built with paper-paste a wall between the fragile form indemnifying, my soul from all the judgments I’ve made in haste. Over a rack of bones and weighty flesh thrown are fabrics light or coarse, shapes and colors too I use to separate myself from you, unknowns in the millions ever-rising, life too rich to subdue. If we’d but admit from our birth we’re dying; perhaps, we’d live each day outside our single shells for the world is full of cocoons, speechless, trying to create an earthly garden from a dreamt of hell.
What is real and right, what is born, or borne; you see is all within a skull of bone, what will be will be.