Man of a Thousand Faces

The man of a thousand faces

Sits down at the table

Eats a small lump of sugar

And smiles at the moon like he knows her

He begins his quiet ascension

Without anyone's steady instruction

To a place with no religion

He's found a path to her likeness

His words are quiet like stains are

On a tablecloth washed in a river

Stains that are trying to cover

For each other

Or at least blend in with the pattern

Good is better than perfect

Scrub till your fingers are bleeding

And I'm crying for things that

I tell others to do without crying

He used to go to his favorite bookstores

And rip out his favorite pages

And stuff 'em into his breast pockets

The moon, to him, was a stranger

Now he sits down at a table

Right next to the window

And begins his quiet ascension

Without anyone's steady instruction

To a place with no religion

He's found a path to her likeness

He eats a small lump of sugar

Smiles at the moon like he knows her