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Under Cut

Why do you choose to bear that mask?
With it's rust colored tears and sad frown.
Do you find it festive my friend? like the paint of a clown?
Is it the echoing roar, that is haunting in the fog?
Or the morbidness you feel of pretending to cry blood.

My mask, is real.
Made of living flesh and hot dripping blood.
My once pristine vision reduced to a red film.
You think I'm like you, playing dress up like a fawn.
Showing off my "deep dark side" that only the skulls can rival.

So I ask you again, why do you choose the bear that mask?