cloak

is what you wear, not who you are, but the surface is what is seen and feels real, of course it is real when the audience applaud at that latest skin, mask being worn even though you gleefully see what is on the inside, a decaying substance that longs to shine, shine obtained says the crowd, wooing for your attention for you shit gold in toilet buckets, while you walk into the swanky mansion you congratulate yourself that this is what everyone wants, feels real, is real because people do want that. but is that all? now the rats nibble at the ropes, at the chains tied to a soul wrapped in glitter, the warmth of the world melts not the ice within, what cold ice! and how can it not be, when it has been nurtured for decades on convincing lies? a convenient story, more pleasurable than a nail being struck on a cross when the dead do not talk back, align with the saints, of fallen heroes because the spin become ever more enchanting. the nibbles become like bites, biting off more than you can chew, till the teeth breaks when it finds bone within meat, like biting on a dead savior finding blood. it sips into the heart, the redness, but the mask is intact, the pleasure is real when perception and reality have intertwined, merged to become one: not a union of souls, god forbid thud, thud, one final act before the actor leaves the stage do you believe? do you repent? do you drink from this cup? aye, aye, you say, then you too will be saved said the priest who was also fighting his own inner battles, when perception and reality too draped over him, a cloak he wore with the audience waiting for the next act and it felt good.