The Mask

[redfetsh]

Rickety carriages grind over the cold cobblestone.
But to where?
The Masquerade!
Plump personas pound their way gracefully to the party:
Women in sophisticated Black dresses
With piercing Blue feathers grasping their skulls.
Men so eloquently impolite that-
They forget to open the door.
But all are smiles
In Masks of true perfection
At the Masquerade.
The music beats
As men pounce
As though in search of...
Prey.
Pray listen
To the violins scream
With strings breaking -

But do not interrupt
The histrionic jocularity
Of the Masquerade.

The bells groan
One
Two
Three
Seven
Six
Eight
Ten
Eleven
Four
Nine
Five
T W E L V E

It is midnight
Yet not quite morn
The Masquerade continues
Oblivious to the cries of the clock.