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 steady instruction
 To a place that no religion
 Has found a path to or a likeness
 His words are quiet like stains are
 On a tablecloth 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 till 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 'em into his breast pockets
 The moon, to him, was a stranger
 And now he sits down at a table
 Right next to the window
 And begins his quiet ascension
 Without anyone's steady instruction
 To a place of no religion
 He's found a path to her likeness
 He eats a small lump of sugar
 And smiles at the moon like he knows her