[aVorbiss]: 642.Poetry.Masks

Sweet treachery, traitorous villainy,
Casting false words upon my name.
Would truth indeed set me free?
No, not when false blame is upon my name.

My heart is but notes, and you the composer.
Her hand guides every pulse. Her
Scent drives me up the walls,
With screaming echoes down the halls
Of my mind in a situation most unkind.

And so people wear their faces,
According to where and when exist their places.
Promoting lies, making others sympathize,
And bringing to such honest names utter disgraces.

Let he who be without sin cast the first stone,
For no one is without having judged and made it known.
For you sit upon a hypocritically sensitive throne,
Piling high are the skulls and bones,
But I will not allow your stone be thrown,
Unless it be to shatter this prism, so all your falseness be shown.