Wednesday, April 2, 2014

Masquerade's End

The room stands gracefully full.
Bright colors swish
against slender ankles.
Ideals dance with dreams,
stepping in perfect time
around the ring, casting a spell.
Take care to not be caught.

Laughter finds an echo
in the gentle cacophony
and ricochets off a single heart.

There is no comfort here.
The food does not fill.
The spell is only an illusion.

A hand reaches up,
unties the chains.
The mask falls,
Strewn glass and gems.
Far gone feathers.
The metal frame contorted,
bent grossly out of shape.

Cast aside
the glamor.

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