Poetry · Writing

Cruel

​The mask is off.

Blank faces rest on weak shoulders and false masculinity.

Sweat pours from strong brows and strong cheek bones too thin jaw lines.

Eyes wondered through, judging silently, to there own appreciation.

The mask is on. The crowd falls in silently to do their bidding and work of drones.

Quietly escorted through the bowels of the beast never questioning the mask.

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