MESSiah

During all his life he was wearing a mask. A white shapeless mask, hiding not only the lines of his face, but the very idea how he might look like. No one had ever seen him without it, and even his numerous flames, pressed to the walls by investigators, were claiming that even in bed the mask was on.

His parents were darkening the atmosphere even more - concealing the facts of his childhood, brooding over the present and keeping the horrifying silence in the most of cases. But when a single word was dropped, blowing up that silence and falling down from their pale dusted lips, one could hear something freezing, like a whisper of hidden danger. Fear. They were anonymously terrified. And when they died, forgotten in their shady corner, he was drinking the intoxicating rays of fame - his mystery made him famous. He was a superstar. And deep inside he felt relieved: he has inherited this mystery fully and individually.

He never said anything direct. There was no need in it. Fame made him wise. More than that. It made him superhuman in others' eyes. They were praying to him for granted.

And the press had finally given up their attempts to reveal his personality...

Some time later he was found dead in his apartment. And the world was drowning in sorrow of having lost their perfect claimed messiah. And the funeral ceremony, held at the biggest hall of the city, became the cemetery for many weak and crying semihumans, twisted into crimson paste in a crush. Then some fan, scorched with delirium, rushed his way through the crowd to touch his idol for the last time. He occasionally touched the mask, and that ugly piece of white plastic suddenly hit the ground, and a scream followed... The icon had no face. He never had one. He never existed...

Mr.Cohen heritage

Surfing the depths of my desk, I found a piece of the past I'm not disappointed with. A kind of answer to Leonard Cohen's "First We Take Manhattan".
A protester, still...

***
I never liked that heaven is so greedy,
Usurping the inevitable change.
I'm coming out of darkness, shot and bleeding,
Convicted by the crowds for being 'strange'.

I ran away from safe, but silent castle
To noisy crypt. They've called it 'shadow cult'.
It's up to them to make this world turn faster,
While they prefer to worsen the result.

I never liked their candy-puppet fashion,
Creating new of torn and twisted brain.
The answer for invention is aggression
To those who can survive without a chain.

Through years it bears the trace of inquisition,
Society I'm born and sold within.
And thus I'm never asking for permission
To take my own Manhattan and Berlin.

So thank you for your hatred, mister guardman,
But you're too weak to beat my freedom out.
And when I die, you'll all be singing 'Amen'
Without a clue of what it's all about.

Center Of Attention

The society I'm born and sold within.
How cynical. How sad. But how endlessly true...