Ghost-white death-mask

Something whispers,
certainly not nothing.
A subtle impetus
to choose
to stir and rise
to place myself
before another gaping canvas.
the ghost-white of a death-mask.

She is my mistress
I dare not disobey
I know by now
she must have her way.
I go, because to not go
is to become that ghost-white death-mask.

Perhaps the truth is this,
I am that mask.
and this devoted labor offered
at the altar of my mistress
is the alchemy required
so i might return to life and living.

When my mistress beckons
I must go and gaze into
that ghost-white death-mask,
as she gazes into me;
and what transpires
is not for me to know.
Only just to follow
where my mistress bids me go.