It was a masquerade…

With silken banners and tablecloths,
musicians and a crystal ballroom.
With mirrors and colors,
Spins and twirls,
Boys and girls,
And masks.

Faces distorted
Costumes sported
Courtly wine
For the women being courted.
And all the while, we all were sorted
Into our social suits.

But in the midst of the dignified mess,
She stood there in her soft white dress,
A ribbon tying her silken tress
As she played the silver flute.

The troupe.
They crawled at her boot.
They kissed the hem of her delicate skirt
And asked her what to do.

She would not speak, but only play
Her merry songs, so soft and gay,
As she gazed upon the vast array
Of spinning, twirling fools.

Her face distorted in sweet distress,
Lovely pain.
Beautiful mess.
Filthy breath upon her neck.
Magnificently cruel.

She could not part the flute from her lips,
Though the metal stung her finger tips,
She could not control the swing of her hips
As the audience whispered and swayed.

Silent tears would form and fall
Trying to escape the wretched ball
But still, she could not move at all
From the spot in which she played.

Parade.
The masks were on parade.
She stood and swayed,
They danced and played,
Spun and twirled,
Began to fade,

And oh, what a masquerade it was.