ObservationIn Masquerade’s shadowed throng, I stand, a single father, bearing two masks: one for my child who seeks the sun’s warmth, another for me chasing its fleeting setting. Each step falters through an unseeing crowd, hands offering crumbs from a loaf I can’t taste to a small voice naming me anchor and storm. The revelry spins beyond my reach; my silent dance weaves love through absence, hope from frayed cloth. Worn but alive in this tumult, I find roots budding—a companion to tend this wild, hopeful soil.0.1639%
