Raven cloaks billow around them in dance,
such a brilliant everlasting gay prance.
We perceive them perfect in every way,
never looking to see what they did pay,
so as to dance in complete flawlessness.
Don’t you see how this unflawed purity
is a guise of pure insecurity.
Behind painted white mask they so hide,
locking in dark secrets and speaking lie.
See how they bend down in the deepest bows,
always to conceal the truth from what’s now.
They stand with forced graceful twirls for chains bind
their hands and their ankles, never to find
freedom will they, for They so choose this fate.
And how can they, see past the darkest hate,
when they are but bound from evil within?
‘Tis it not our darkened cloak that so pins?
Oh dance on, all thee so chained of friends,
dancing only wishing for song to end.
Perhaps it is out of fear that they hide
from all and for all so they did decide,
they choose to be all the same and alike.
But I know that all they desire is to be free of the masks.
And I watch them, with tears a glistening in my eyes,
how it pains me that they should dance in lies.
How I see their pain as we bow low,
and beneath their white masks I see all that they will never show,
and all the beauty they will never know
and I am the same, for how can I know?
This deception shall rule no longer.
So I stop, standing still,
watching for a moment as they continue to dance.
I see the shock in their eyes, as they see me decide
that nevermore will I dance nor be bound by these chains.
I lift my hand to my face,
the cold metal of these black chains
cutting into my skin like a crown of thorns.
My fingers touch my mask,
so cold between my fingertips
like dead roses that were never alive.
Blood dripping from my wrists,
cascading to the ground and splashing in sweet kiss.
How the cold spreads from my fingertips, burning, burning,
as if I am to be frozen and to stand petrified
as a reminder
to all who try to break the chains.
I lift the mask from my face.
falling falling down.
Shattering into a thousand cries of deceit
as brilliant shards of glass
cover the painted mosaic upon which we danced,
like diamonds from some sleeping beauty adorned.
The chains fall away, made unto ash upon the ground,
my cloak of black turning back to a perfect iridescent hue.
Now I am free from the deception
of what I am supposed to be.
Perfection is the truth, deception is just a poor imitation of it.
Yet we still seem to think
that perfection only exists in the everlasting brilliance of the ball,
this alone the greatest deception of them all.