The Golden Idol Leers

The golden idol leers

From his pedestal of hand

His bald head matches with his mistress’s fashion

In a place that I’ll never stand.

They say I’d win that Oscar

If my features were all raw

Remove the concealer makeup

Reveal the visage flawed

Is it that easy to win a prize?

Under the mask, a face I despise?

How far can I go on this well-worn road?

But it’s the only way I’ll receive that which I am owed.

And my story-work matters little, if my transformation’s great,

But I’ll tell my tale and hope the meaning isn’t too little or too late.

My story’s plot was full of intrigue,

Its characters of grandiose life

The setting was a little town

That saw a hero murder his wife.

The hero never meant to,

But he later came to see

That the women he mourned and flailed himself for

Was not what she was made out to be.

The hero said to his friend at the very end:

This world is a masquerade!

But people wear their masks so long

That their true selves have to dust decayed.

The fallen girl’s role I did take,

I knew that of it, I could make

Something spectacular and true,

For my peers to appreciate… yes, all of you.

You people in frocks and ties,

Who are scientifically petrified in your twenties

A life of lies, revealed only in your eyes

(And when you’re left with just pennies)

I eat at your tables; I wear your gowns;

I converse on an acceptable level.

Yet when people explain why I’m not on that stage,

It’s because I was never disheveled.