Masquerade

I don’t have Halloween,

with its masks and disguises.

I walk naked through the witches and the hobgoblins

exposing my ripened flesh

to sharpened fangs and ravenous appetites.

And, after the ritualistic feast,

I am renewed again,

like the Promethean heart,

rewarded with the sword of experience,

yet condemned with the inability

to remove it from its scabbard.

I must arise for I feel a chill.

Exhausted, I warmed myself

with dreams of the womb.

But I’ve had those dreams before

only to awake to find myself shivering

upon the cold marble of a sacrificial alter.

Where then is Halloween?

For I must don its masks and disguises,

for no one shall see my mutilated face,

for such ugliness revolts even me.

copyright © Camillo C. Bica