Charade

When the setting sun glows like a deep red rose,
And the wind stirs the troubles inside,
In a dark masquerade as the orchestra fades,
Its realised, for once, that you lied.

Like the hope of a dream about a world so serene,
Tangled on the autumn breeze,
Like a slight warp in time twisted by rhyme,
Echoing in the trees.

Laced is the chalice with hate and malice,
Weaving a dark tale to bind,
With silvery lies that make people cry,
Whispered deep in your mind.

Like a midnight charade your mind they have played,
Lost in a blanket of tears,
Shifting the shape of the shadows it makes,
Confirming your very worst fears.