man of a thousand faces

the man of a thousand faces, sits down at the table, eats a small lump of sugar, and smiles at the moon like he knows her, and begins his quiet ascension, without anyone's sturdy instruction, to a place of no religion, has found a path to our alikeness, his words are quiet like stains are, on a table cloth washed in a river, stains that are trying to cover, for each other, or at least blend in with the pattern, good is better than perfect, scrub til your fingers are bleeding, and i'm crying for things that i tell others to do without crying, he used to go to his favorite bookstores, and rip out his favorite pages, and stuff them into his breast pocket, and the moon to him was a stranger, now he sits down at the table, right next to the window, and begins his quiet ascension, without anyone's sturdy instruction, to a place of no religion, has found a path to our alikeness, and eats a small lump of sugar, and smiles at the moon like he knows her