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