This is for the dverse prompt—masks. We’ve just had another fox incident and I intended to write about Mr Fox. It didn’t work out quite like that.
Inscrutable and false, the phoney foxy face,
So many layers upon the lily-white true,
No face scraped bare of tints and shades, we show,
No heart ripped red and raw stuck on showy sleeve.
Yet what is true and pure, a Jesus true with open arms,
And eyes raised to behold a heavenly Parrish blue,
A real you, beneath the bristling beast or melting smile?
Dig deep and we are all the wild-eyed crouchers
In the depths of frozen caves.
Not pristine-pure as glacier water,
Virtuous, spiritual as some troubadour,
We slouch and shamble in the hallowed dark,
And lick the dripping blood from lipless mouths.