Rose, Prose, Poetry

Masquerade

I could never dare complain about my life's masquerade.

This ballroom, adorned with chandeliers, curtains, and endless mirrors,

Is nothing short of exquisite. A spectacle to the eye.

So I allow myself to be swept away in the sea of masks and cracked smiles,

Knowing very well the game I must play,

To maintain makeshift happiness.

I drape a delicate gown over my figure,

Pastel hues, ornate lace, and lovely frills covering my flaws,

So that those lusting gentlemen or those judgmental maidens

Won't see the scars I bear across my skin,

Lashes that linger to remind me of my shortcomings.

A string of pearls coils around my neck like a snake,

Tight like a noose to serve as a reminder,

A warning about the social suicide,

That forever lingers as long as I talk,

And haunts you even if I do not,

Because conversation is about playing enough of the fool

So that the nobles feel superior to my existence,

While playing enough of a genius,

So that the posh feel like I am worthy of their presence.

It's a game, a riddle, a cryptic way of speaking,

And no sentence is as it seems,

So I am forced to read between the lines,

Because paragraphs are written in the margins.

Suddenly, the piano plays,

And the violins begin to swell in a pristine melody,

And the people begin to murmur excitedly amongst themselves,

Eager to spark up new, exciting love,

A concept that is foreign to all of them.

Curious and clueless just like the rest,

I join the dance, stepping and skipping on light feet,

Hoping I might be swept away in sure and steady hands,

Like the novels of Jane Austen describe.

Strangers take my hands and take pleasure in marring soft skin,

Clutching my palms as they twirl me around.

Searching among the masked figures,

I find only people who cling to me or escape me,

And I find myself more confused,

Losing myself in the movement as the melody blares in my ears.

I find people who desire my demure nature and nothing else,

Seeking a maid and not a soul.

I try to converse carefully with those who seem promising,

Reading their footnotes and subtext as I wish to capture them in a moment's kiss,

Only to find that they don't know what they write in this wordless conversation,

And that they lack the clarity to act, though they still hold me with yearning.

Scared, I lock eyes with a figure,

As appealing and enchanting as a perfect painting,

And I try to gaze and yearn for them,

Imagining a soul I could long for behind those blackened eyes,

And for a moment, I pretend as though I have fallen,

So that I can feel like I am loving someone in this sea of people,

Rather than knowing that I am nothing but lost and lonely.

The dance concludes, and conversations resume,

And I can barely bear the weariness my heart carries,

So I partake in the champagne,

That tastes of bitter pears and rotten peaches,

And I attempt to melt into the embrace of the heartless night,

Knowing very well that I will be punished by the cruel morning.

This ball, this charade, this ephemeral joy,

Ebbs and flows with the acts of this opera we all play,

And I know this is all I can ask to receive,

In this beautiful, cursed masquerade.