The blazing chandelier in the sky,
drowning in the scent of cinnamon-
where the breeze move in a harmony,
yet the leaves, a little dissonant.

I look in the eyes of other guests,
the lustre of peculiar staccatos, not at rest,
differ to what the orchestra is playing;
all vicious in their attempts to eradicate the yellowing.

This is the ball of masquerades,
Dancing a life, so fake;
our toes on the dying leaves a grenade-
time's up when we pull our masks away.

Some dance, some hunt,
some are slick, some are blunt.
When you rine, they trick,
when they rine, you run.

Mystique, if it is,
when there are no ball gowns;
to respect the solemn breaths,
why own these crowns?

This is the ball of masquerades,
Dancing a life, so fake;
our toes on the dying leaves are a grenade-
time's up when we pull our masks away.

Oh how naive you are,
to think it's just a dance,
for it's a way to sweep you off your feet,
behind that sweet glance.

As you sway your feet on ground,
the ire of the other chicks is found
in the deepest pits where sins don't count,
I wish you kept this love out of fallacy underground.

Because,

This is the ball of masquerades,
Dancing a life, so fake
our toes on the dying leaves are a grenade-
time's up when we pull our masks away.

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A U T H O R' S N O T E

October is dying, yet it looks so beautiful- maybe that's why we love that month. But the love which loves the fake, isn't it what we call as fake love?

So here comes October fragmented into a masquerade ball. I wonder, does anyone know masquerade ball's history?