The mask of paint
Holds back from thought,
Deeming what is to be seen and perceived,
and what is not;

The mask of mortal flesh,
Hiding from wide probing eyes,
and they know not the sadness nor pain,
Or when alone why he cries;

But none ponder such thoughts,
For they want their own escape,
Never going deeper than the costume,
Or what applies to cruel twists of fate;

So, when late at night,
Performances long past done,
And the clown wipes away the false tears and sadness,
Clearing from the face,
And beneath, the mask is still in place,
And the game of life and happiness...
...is much easier lost than won.