Death Mask
By John Herlihy

The man lay quietly prone as if sleeping,
All earthly cares laid aside for safe keeping.
A hushed silence with amplitude filled the room,
Pungent incense wafted amid flowers in full bloom.
The body now lay supine and never to arise again,
A storybook now closed on once upon a time and then.
What was left of the man still lay placidly on the face,
The fingers, legs, toes now immobile with undue haste.
The face, once lively expression, in death now wooden,
Once a wealth of emotions, now as a child’s sorely chidden.
The face still framed as in life with old-fashioned whiskers,
Sunburned and blotchy as though recovering from blisters.
He had the look of an old farmer or sea captain in leathers,
He no doubt worked outside, familiar with all weathers.
Grey cascading curls now surrounded the venerable head,
The man’s features giving the air of being frozen instead.
The death mask, ah the one mask that will never be lifted,
Now that the soul has moved on and elsewhere drifted.
We wear a series of masks all our lives in search of peace,
This mask gives nothing away but its feeling of release.