Lights dim, apocalypse calls, lying mask..

Phillip A. Ellis

Lights dim, apocalypse calls, lying mask
    is driven again to the man, still, standing
    in darkness, waiting. Words but shoulder, demanding
attention, scraping skin on his roughest task --
a set of cards almost, scattered, a flask
    of confidences cracked, facts, hopes disbanding,
    useful fears, hates, together, no landing
unless unquestioned, lies, none daring to ask.

He acts: shoulders back, flesh as his hide,
    antagonists await, claws now clipped, with teeth
so nothing escapes, hears the tapes inside;
he acts. Around his face the shadows feast,
    the warhorse calls, intro closing, grief,
anger, both acts, slouching forwards, blond beast.

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