October Ends, as a New day begins,
With people dressed in fanciful, funky, and often frightening new personas.
Deep below the surface, the self seeks to say, “I am that which you now see,
And yet, of course, it is not me.”
Masks, and costumes, and uniforms of all types
Seek affirmation of the self’s greatest fear,
And also its greatest need
To be loved, not for who you are, but for who others see it to be?
Perhaps, on this day of death and fright and sugary surprises,
We remember those who have come and gone, and then come again,
Perhaps not as themselves, in any fleshly form,
But as the vapoury substance of memory,
For ill and for good and for regret and for delight
Inflicted and forced upon you by the sudden and terrifying actions
Of the human “being” human in his natural state of indifferent obsession,
It comes, suddenly, and always without exception,
Always wearing masks of smiles, or frowns, or even occasionally,
Skimpy skin tight nurse outfits.
Remember that they fear not the ghosts and ghouls of Halloween night,
But the always awkward realization that no one is whom he says to be,
The worst of these, should anyone ever find out,
Is me.
