When the fog lifts and illusions become clearer
I take off my mask and face my mirror…
When mists fall and the crowds gather,
The mask slips on- smiling, glaring, weeping, laughing…. fiercer.
It moulds, it shifts, and it changes: as the truth gets nearer.
Everything is easy, its all impulse and its getting weaker
All until I face my mirror.
The face of reality, the face of illusion
Which is easier?
The wardrobe holds my masks.
Every moment, of which I’m the reaper.
Don’t you love my mask?
Won’t you hate my mirror?
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