(...)

(…)

Candles burn in my poison eyes—
The mask bleeds, but never cries…
I release what I have chosen,
But all around, the walls close in
To suffocate the smile I bear
With my porcelain stare:
An eye of flame that deceives—
And an eye of hope that believes.

The singing bird heeds not my lies.
He sees through my disguise.
Doth thou feel not the sedated ruin
Of a soul that once was human?
No! Rise thy song, unbroken
Through the silence ‘round me woven,
Piercing not this shroud of shades.
Alas! too soon, alas! thy song fades.

Ah! lily that blushes by the water,
Knowest thou what tears or laughter
May be should I cast aside this veil?
No! Alas! thou art too frail
A thing to heed such debris
As the sin born in me.

I weep for what never has been
That I wish could be mine again,
In dreams…but I dream no more
Of the riches dreamt before.
There is no more paradise
Behind the believer’s and the deceiver’s eyes.

© 2021 Marten Hoyle