MASQUERADE.

Cold smiles greet us on the stage.

Vacant, sullen and taut. the hands leap over the eyes.

Thwarted, we hide our faces in silent rage,

Until stark lanterns fade and we give birth to lies.

Placid ladies flutter and offer, and swirl their fingers,

Taking rigid denial and turning away quickly,

And luscious memories crippled by cloudy singers,

Become exploded in our subdued uncertainty.

How often they pretend. they are puppet-masters who

Command sadness, coldness, rage and joy.

Lone dancers strut with feathers false and motives true,

In this masquerade, this child's toy.

The paleness of some infinite potency.