In an empty room eyes without a face.
They are stirring other images,
glimpses of a distant life,
of a gone
life.
The hands cannot identify the face
Behind the Iron Mask
Dim is within on the plane of the mind
a kneeled spirit
under the boot of fear
cleansed with torture
traped in purity by the whip.
Daggers from sound penetrate
resistance behind
each one,
a Holy inquisitor.
Mouths reveal the presence of
haunted beings unworthy to be said alive.
Open the
window
Release the spirit from this empty body
Behind the Iron Mask
Draining pleasures from mental wounds
a need opposed
to false excuses
unveils the greatest beast.