At The Masquerade

AT THE MASQUERADE Death defies the odds of life. Perpetual sleep is better than death. But tonite, the mist is arranged and layered over stars and the black roses that glitter in his garden. Inside, the main dining chamber is fluttered with masked citizens. Symphonic liberty juts from all corners of the place. A man dressed in the skin of sows at his waist, followed by a black satin blouse, arises from his post at the base of the grand staircase. His long lustrous coat lingers on past his knees and onwards towards his ankles. The velvet satin drags on behind his every step. His mask, a plain black one that covers only the eyes, shines in the nite. The other masks of the nite rejoice in comparison with each other. The man of the stairs promenades to a woman of angelic beauty. The sweet smell of baby’s breath rises through her light brown hair. Moisture fills the holes of each other mask as they dance and kiss passionately. One knows not the name of the work orchestrated from the symphony, but of the love that embraces the two masked lovers that danced. Then the man collapses into the arms of his beloved as his requiem’s last note expresses the despair of she.