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,
shatters.
Strewn glass and gems.
Far gone feathers.
The metal frame contorted,
bent grossly out of shape.
Stand.
Perfect.
Whole.
Cast aside
the glamor.
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