The Mask of Facades upon Old Architecture
Mask, an object worn over the face to hide identity beneath.
I wore a mask for years. Who knows how many, I have forgotten. Right now I wear one, even still.
Then it started to peel. Paint does that. Even the most chemical which leaks into your insides behind labels of “for sensitive skin.”
These chemicals only made me more sensitive. Formed not out of nature but out of a lab.
My eyes leaked from the windows, crying sunlight, when I just wanted rain to dance in.
Whispers flickered shapes across my skin, leaving the impression of wolves about to blow me down.
Soon I kept only straw on the inside. Outside I towered into the sky with walls of brick, and then, the earthquake hit. I rattled and shock, cracked and crumbled. When the clouds rose back into the heavens and the grey danced off upon the wind, I remained, a memory of masks built of material and changing mood.
Today I begin peeling the paint. With hand and hoe. Rock and roll. Faerie dust and book musk.
Have you ever sat on a sidewalk and watched a house, watch you?
It will drain stories out the pipe vents.
What is your mask?
ARR.