Masque.

Not very good. But I figured I'd post it.

A masquerade is simply a bunch of fakers on Parade.
Life can flee and so can we
but unravelling is the dream in which we sleep.
It's hard to put the pieces together again -
even when we say we can stand.

Standing is over rated but under rated as well.
Life can be unforgiving, this masquerade is hell.
When I try to get back up on my feet all I do is slip
and begin to dream as my breathing trips.
Life in a pirouette, its leotard splitting at the seams.

Unravelling in time can be so undermined.
We fall apart at the seams when nobody knows what it means.
We were alive and we were zombies, alone.
Nothing is what it seems and we're chilled to the bone.
Words slip and stumble through our teeth.

My mask is rotting away.
The rust catches my throat, my body begins to sway.
Ravished! Ravishing! The fatality in femininity.
Beauty decays in our proximity.
And the small hopes that stars bring are just a twinkle.

A twinkle in screams.
A discretion no one keeps.
Pirouette, pirouette, half-step, turn.
Masque the ballerina. Make her flesh burn.
And the blush may fall on her polyester.

Polyester. Alabaster. China doll features.
Hidden by the mask of rotted lace and feathers of creatures
Blood from the eye. Blood on the lips.
Grey are the iris and fingertips.
And the crimson goes drip.

Drip.

Drip.