Face a mask,
Painted in harlequin
Gold and crimson.
Seems you have no choice but to
Swirl and swing with the best
In this hall of the ball,
Where you know no-
And none know you.
Your face, a mask.
And ruby red.
All around you are
Strangers and strangeness,
Filling your ears and eyes
With a vista of hollow and
What better paradise could there
Be but this milling throng,
Where anonymity is friend and foe,
But no one's ally?
Gowns of flashing sequins; adoration
By torchlight and reflecting eyes.
You swirl and swing with the best,
And feel untouchable, because nobody is
There to touch you,
Only Harlequins and kings, queens
And Fools; and all slaves.
A little scarred and scared now, that
Perfect face behind your mask
Of pretty porcelain.
Your eyes reflect nothing, but you are
Reflected in myriad windows to souls
That don't exist.
Your swirl is now a vortex, and the
Room twists in obliging counter-balance.
You lose your feet and fall, that mask
Finally falling, the devil-faced in a tuxedo
The last to blow a kiss as your hazy,
Flicker and flutter.
The dance continues, with more
Puppeted harlequins close to take your
Place. You can see their strings; you can...
See the strings falling to their wrists, and
Ankles, and around their necks, a silken
How comfortable slavery is, when
Nobody looks enslaved
Save for in their eyes...
But; their eyes only reflected...