Masquerade

The sound of a crack in her mask is the sound of hope.

Her eyes shine with a friendliness false, and the lie on her lips is sweet. Bystanders stand in awe at the bright sun, but they lack the vision to see the light switch ready to flip. They know not of the fog behind the shine.

It is her whispers in the dark that tell the truth. The room plunged into the abyss as not to taint the light, her tongue wraps around syllables and words that would ruin the strongest of men.

Venom streaks across the image of conversation partners, and her acid burns at the trust others have placed in her.

Perhaps she is the demon, opening my eyes to sin.

Or perhaps I am the jester, played like a fool.

And like a fool, I close my eyes to her scheme. Love is a poison that kills.