The face we fashion for the public square
is a strict accountant of compliance.
It trades the breath of original utterance
for the safety of applause.
In the quiet of the evening,
the mirror reveals the terrible bargain.
The featureless shell has grown into the skin,
silencing the tongue that once sought to belong.
By stifling the authentic cry to please the collective ear,
the performer becomes a permanent prisoner of the pantomime.
The applause fades,
but the silence remains.
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