{Of Masquerades and Child's Play}

A game.

A child, making laughter sing through the night. 

Hands placed over features so precariously chaste.

A Mask.

A face, hidden from the world.

No one ever sees the true intentions.

Imagination leading conversation.

Make-believe, someone you don't know.

A lie, too innocent to count as transgression.

Scribbled writing in an old notebook about who you're not.

Voices, louder than your own, taking place in your stead.

An audience of one. 

Expectations high. Higher is fear. (A prayer for inspiration.)

Curtains rise, as the communication is passed. 

Desired. Craved. Like candy in shining silver wrappers.

A  greeting. That voice that aims to please. Making talk small, and interest  smaller.

Compliments abundantly thrown.

Personalities fall together-- Glares in the mirror. (Because feelings are fallen as well.)

Making high praise a low act.

Time fails the performer, neither fast nor slow.

Steadily counting on the counted.

Breaking face of minute and mind.

Entangled, they drift down

ever

  s
        p
         i

           r    
       a  
       l
        l

     i

   n

      g

         .

            .
         .

Sudden warnings, bringing façades crashing down.

Cracks in the walls, open to  b r e a t h e . . . 

The infant's hands, flashing open.

(Laughing, ready to snap shut.)

Hinting at destination.

Hysteria running over the stage floors.

Costumes pulled back, the hems dampened.

Pleading with the crowd. (So small in body, soul applauding louder for deaf comrades.)

One more instant. A requisite, diminutive exhibit.

Enticing with cavalcades of the illusory.

An encore of the master's art.

But the superiority's exodus is inevitably timed.

That broken face laughs as it ticks away to the irrevocable clinch.

The final act, coarse and rushed, halting to an abrupt

 END.

The line goes dead. 

The performance is over.

The child peeks out.

Placidly respires.

It's safe to come out. 

Though hide-and-seek wasn't the game.

Or was it?

Shuddering breaths, as barricades weaken.

Defenses falling down like leaves, to melodies of changing seasons.

(Time hides cynical laughter. Aptly noting that leaves don't fall-- they're pushed.)

Fluttering

        fraying at the edges
                            the mask slips away.

Trembling and wide-eyed
a reflection is on trial
in the mind of artists.

The face is not recognized.