The Masquerade
The pain is singeing
chared affliction, hot and new
as the chariot awaits
horses who are so black
you cannot see their listless eyes
They bring the qualm
that preceds the masquerade
ragining toward sempiternity
flowing through the blood
Indifference is sought
Glaxed eyes behind the mask
with shimmering cerise
satin straps and a vigilant smile
Their hooves dig deep
into that cardiac soil
nails twisting with fear
and the passengers laugh
The dancing begins
The blackness waits
its shadows casting down
in deep scarlet, that is the
moonlit night of the masquerade