Sweet, sweet melody.
False mask for melancholy.
Glorious, glorious works of art.
Cover-up for a crumbling heart.
Delightful, delightful poetry.
A shallow mirror of misery.
Glistening, glistening coins of gold.
Bribes to cloak the growing mold.
Your song, your portrait, your well wrought verse.
Your wealth, your falsities, your acted mirth.
Yet beneath it all, you are just as I.
Transparent to none, but those with the inner eye.
Sometimes Society is but a stage, and we who are in it, are mere actors, our riches covering our true selves, our witty comments replacing our feelings.
By Lady of Scartha
About Lady of Scartha
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