And Always this Beating of the Mask

And always this beating of the mask
more thinly: each worry-line
and glistening tear-track.

I am seeking only a Quest, you say?
Don't interrupt, or raise your eyebrows
like inverted commas.

As for the claim that Perfection
recedes infinitesimally
with each incremental step closer:

enough. I have never believed in algebra,
its untouchable verbs. I have seen tricks
on blackboards, yet gone home knowing

that even parallel lines touch
eventually, for theirs is the kingdom
of the real, free from definition,

and one day this mask
will be indistinguishable
from the face beneath,

or no longer a mask
but the face itself, for which
there can be no further use,

and I will find myself
suddenly nearing shore,
among birds.