ObservationIn past lives, I donned the masks,
A shadow fit for lacquered grins.
But now they flinch from what I’ve cast,
Tangled souls submerged in sin.
Beware the realm of hollow men,
The faceless throng in borrowed skin,
Swapping shrouds with withered hands —
Cracked and black like oaken wilt.
I cradle you where none may come,
Between the fever dreams and dusks —
A prism for my dying sun.
Suspended in the lurid glow,
The lingering wraiths
Of broken fate.
The masks still dance.
The hour is late.0.1639%
