The face and throne fastened to the body.
The fate and pride.
Of this, to endlessly endure.

The mask,
Dripping with candle wax,
From which it is made.
White, pure and breaking with every spoken word.

To the throne you’re made king,
To succeed and replace with flesh.
All the peasants will sing:
“O new crown passed the test,
Maybe his face won’t break,
Not like all the rest.
A day longer, a year longer.”

With every passing day
The paint is added to the canvass,
Which laden with blood and legend

With every passing year
The sleep is unobtainable,
And the sanity lost
With each speck of rust to the crown.

If the face, the mask could speak
Its words would surely reek
Of hatred and bile
At having to hide behind this wax.
But no one is to know your secret,
Your pale fair face and your nature gentle, meek.

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