Mark that shack
veneered as a palace.
A mysterious one-track
byway from human race.
The weather-cock atop
in a fickle spin
welcomes to the shop
of a thousand twins.
Within-
A cornucopia of dissonant hoods
hung on every nail that could.
Consorting where they should,
the flesh, festoons, fragrance and flora;
feathers, flavours and flamboyant aura.
Not a mirror
or a façade familiar.
Not a repeat face
in that assortment somewhere.
Espouse your choice,
the medley is yours.
Just
veil the eyes
and gag that voice;
the hood stays on for years.
Waxing in tiers; aging
to a flaking paint
on an aching core.
Unrestored, you scar;
adrift, on the other shore.
In search of self
delving the shelves;
still helplessly shopping
at the mask maker’s store!
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