Painting masks is an art unseen.
Hidden in dark hours,
the craftsman hangs blank ware
onto a mannequin's head.
Needing little inspiration,
he mixes his paint in a multitude of hues
to capture I and you.

From the street, he recalls faces,
of what he has seen,
and paints the same mask again
and again.

The perfected work -
the face of a homeless man,
aching to find home.

He sells his art on the net,
And names them "Happiness".
They sell like iced lollies
on a humid, claustophobic day.

VERY
NICE

The pain of person can never be feeled, only the person going with it known or who must have passed from such thrones..

Nice poem .

Thanks guys, written for a contest on masks....