The Masque of Mercy

Can you see me, through this gilded glass?

A soul once clad in cloth of earnest grace,

Now draped in robes that shimmer for the mass—

Performing kindness on a hollowed stage.

I speak to you, a voice that’s lost its sound,

Reciting lines rehearsed with careful art;

Where once pure heart and hope were tightly bound,

Now beats the drum of calculated part.

The ache within me whispers tales of old,

When love was given without terms or glance;

But now it’s bartered, polished bright and cold—

A currency for fleeting circumstance.

The tears I shed are captive to their glare;

My generosity a scripted dance.

Dreams bleed in silence, crushed beneath the feet

Of eyes that watch but never truly see—

A visage rosy-tinted, falsely sweet,

Ensconced in shallow acts of charity.

Is this compassion? Or just theater’s guise,

Where care’s a mask worn to deceive the wise?

I grieve the innocence that slipped away—

The raw embrace that bore no audience.

In crowded rooms where hollow praises sway,

True kindness falters under pretense’ fence.

Yet still a part within me dares to hope,

That mercy might reclaim its weary throne;

That love transcends performance's tightrope,

And finds its echo in hearts truly known.

But oh! The sting of watching selfless deeds—

Turned selfish shows for fleeting hearts’ applause;

How bitter grows this garden full of weeds—

Where genuine blooms yield without a cause.

So heed my words—a melancholy plea:

Let not your care be tethered by afar;

Break free from masks and artifice—be free—

For only then will light outshine the mar.