("No! this face is only a mask, a wicked ornament,
|
illuminated by an exquisite grimace,
|
Look and see, atrociously contorted,
|
The real head, and the sincere face
|
Turned back under the shadow of the face which lies"
|
Charles Baudelaire)
|
|
He is profanity in sanctity's guise
|
An alias assumed I do realize
|
In their eyes, his cause -
|
when enticing and cunning in impact
|
is still a criminal and evil act
|
|
So look for him vainly,
|
He, the incarnation of magickal nature
|
He turns unrecognizable even to the experienced eye
|
|
You obsessively pursue him
|
Failing to see, hat was why he came to be
|
one who annihilates with such impunity
|
|
He appears your friend, but
|
the Saint hides many Satans
|
He's contemptuous, you know
|
of your Godgiven stupidities
|
He calls you in question with
|
affected modesty and create
|
of you an object of derision
|
|
You think him to be pariah
|
whom company does exclude
|
But in the midst of all frenzy
|
He is - feasting in a transitory mood
|
|
Passion is a strict lord
|
He is also its humble slave
|
When bereft of common ways,
|
He strides before you on water
|
He makes clowns of kings,
|
charm the guests, rides the ball
|
Is the master of disguise
|
|
Prince of the thousandfold face
|
the charming jester's smile
|
which invites reason to demise
|
and imaginations rise
|
Inscrutable yes, venting his spleen
|
Somewhere night and day between
|
Is the master of disguise
|
|
-----------------
|
Painting My Horror
|
| Arcturus |
