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Raccoon
Your pores are wreaking your solitude in its defiance
Moldy bones knotting into crisp harmonies
that crescendo into a sweet lullaby of daunting inquiries
of the night.
Eight-toed demons seclude
Into coiled scraps of film
The monsters each hold a ticket of
Cables running along their electric
Eccentric backless spines
Each running into a swamped tarp of thoughts
Riggings on the vessels
Like how support beams hold you up
But instead the ropes only give you a burn
Your face is masked
A masquerade is being held but we all know
Incognito isn't your thing
So we know who you are
Behind that wall of plastic paint
And feathered ends with long noses
Raccooned eyes and jeweled foreheads
You are like the demons that hold your secrets.
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"The world is a comedy to those who think, a tragedy to those who feel." -Horace Walpole