The Man of a Thousand Faces
The man of a thousand facesSits down at the tableEats a small lump of sugarAnd smiles at the moon like he knows herAnd begins his quiet ascensionWithout anyone's sturdy instructionTo a place of no religionHas found a path or a likeness
His words are quiet like stains areOn a table cloth washed in a riverStains that are trying to cover, for each otherOr at least blend in with the patternGood is better than perfectScrub til your fingers are bleedingAnd I'm crying for things that I tell others to do without crying
He used to go to his favorite bookstoresAnd rip out his favorite pagesAnd stuff them into his breast pocketAnd the moon to him was a strangerNow he sits down at the tableRight next to the windowAnd begins his quiet ascensionWithout anyone's sturdy instructionTo a place of no religionHas found a path or a likenessAnd eats a small lump of sugarAnd smiles at the moon like he knows her