The Hypokrites

A Poem

The stage lights shine brightly on my face;
I feel their warmth against my skin
as beads of sweat fall from my brow
into my eyes, which are blinded by their glow.
My throat screeches in pain
as I sing my final soliloquy,
and as I finish, I take my bow—
the eruption of glorious applause rings in my ears.

As the applause dies down,
the audience rises and leaves
only to forget today when tomorrow comes.
The show is over;
I have played my part.
Where I once thought there was honor—
which I chased, sought, and reached for—
I found none to lie.

As I wipe off my makeup,
the ghost light comes on.
"One more performance after another,
and another after that."
I notice a man in the back of the theatre,
one who had not left with the rest.
He did not clap;
he was not impressed.

He rises from his seat
and walks towards me,
joining me on the stage.
In a warm embrace,
he removes my mask.
"I have played this part for so long
that I have since forgotten who I am."
"But I remember," says the man. 

He is the only one to ever see me,
the face that hides beneath the mask,
the only one to ever care
about what lurks behind my performance.
Tossing the mask off the stage, 
he lifts me up, smiling,
and together we walk out of the theatre—
hand in hand.