Identities

In borrowed visage on the stage,
All see my flargrant disguise
But concealed behind the everyman
None see my 'Mr. Hyde'

I lost myself in search to find
Something else to hide behind
And now I find I'm trapped inside
This labyrinthine mind

I've tried the truth a thousand times
And come back to pretend
Though Kierkegaard may prove me wrong
These lies I will defend.

All my words are memories,
Once spoken, already past,
And every word I'll ever speak
Ozymandias will outlast

You think I've taken off the mask
I wear equivocally,
But I've found a face you've never seen
And now that mask is me.

The Dead

'The Dead!' he proclaims in painted lines
Of twisted narrative and coarse designs
And shoves opinions of reflective glass
Up the world's ubiquitous snobbish ass.

Theories of cyclical historical rounds
And withered morals--recycled--abounds
In ashen hearts picturing sullen rifts
Across accumulated ivory drifts.

The obsession with anguish of the past
Dulls the reader like a drunken repast,
'Til left like malignant melanoma,
The reader, 'dead', in self-induced coma.

This image cherish, and students rejoice,
For thus too, perished, the beloved Joyce.