Masquerade

Masquerade


Destitute,
this tundran mouth-

So unforgiving,
this sort of death following death

calling for you

through the jagged ever honing plains of voice and throat-
I will die for you; you will die for me, a thousand times-
Now, come and find me.

Of bleak
yellow, brown, black and grey;

these tundran confines; converge into the heart-
Meets the sultry smudges and controlled paint strokes

of sequins, royal velvet and lace shades-
unfathomable-

now,
Imagined-

Italian hand made masks-
Dreamt-

This masquerade-

Of billions.

Hearts thumping,
classical piano playing in the backdrop,

a lovely serenade-
to this tundran abode,

This hunting for death being followed by life,

in search of the woman behind the mask-
Hers,

Dusty rose, scarlet red lips,
silver bells…

Escaping clocks,
broken heel-

Fairytale cliché after cliché after cliché-
Met.

Chasing silhouettes down-

Stairs
And
Delicate
Stoned
Archways.

Dead end,
wall barrier of confrontation of sorts,

Where they-
Slow danced.

Demasked-