Masquerade

A hurricane of fancy faces

swirl an ever safe dance

of lacy ball gowns dripping pearls,

and sequined masks adorned with feathers.

One step back,

and enter a frenzy of horned gods

and feminine figures.

Again, repeat the choreography of color.

Bow to partner with grace.

Try not to stare at the owner's mask.

Grey eyes gleam behind the slits,

even as gloved hands circle waist.

Reality spins away.

Purple spills into the twilight's reds and golds.

Blue winds with black's friend of green.

The effects are dizzying.

Dazzling.

Marble ground remains under toe,

heels gently tapping,

dresses vaguely shifting.

Is no one real?

Laughter penetrates the scene;

daring, greedy peals.

Shadows revolve.

Only the eyes of grey are visible now.

Rush of colors stop.

Sound ceases to exist.

The dance ends.

He stares still.

Black gloves touch flushed face.

Lead away from dancers into garden,

where fuchsia flowers, and emerald leaves wave.

A velvet kiss brushes ruby lips.

The love and embrace of Death himself

could seem no sweeter

than the masque of Fate.