Standing vigilant by the gate of the first mask
Our hands they now creak from misuse, harden to leather
We wait, with hope we can stand guard forever
It's a weight that we share
This mask is not meant to be buried
Nurture and consummate
Pronounced with a trembling inflection
Learning how the earth reclaims what it yields us
Sunken-chested we brandish our offering
And admit that we haven't been living or breathing
Only striving swollen-hearted
Silent, blank tomb of white granite
Stark in its patience
Beckons for the mask
With which we hold concealed
The aging of our visage
Fleeing still its mirror
Sculpting frail clays of a tired love
Whose lungs have collapsed
To languish in the breast of a spent kiln
It's a weight that we share
This mask is not meant to be buried