The Mask of Mimicked Gods
A porcelain face with eyes of empty gold,
It hangs within a temple made of mist;
A secret that a thousand years have told,
And every king and beggar’s lip has kissed.
The one who wears the shell of painted clay,
Shall feel the power surge through every vein;
To command the turning of the night and day,
And walk the heavens like a drop of rain.
But slowly does the plaster start to fuse,
Until the wearer’s skin is cold and white;
The mortal name is something they shall lose,
To become a shadow in the holy light.
A god is born from every hollow mask,
To perform a lonely and an endless task.
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