The Cold Masquerade Set Upon The Stage That Is Life
We are but players in the stage of life
Each to his own brand of act
Partitioning each other in various forms
Of debauchery
We put on masks which shield our true natures
Gaze into the eyes, for they are all that is real
Gaze into the windows of the soul
For they alone can reveal

Reap the spirit that hides behind the veil
The part it plays has become
Too much a reality, as such
Its true essence is lost

The true beauty inherent in a soul becomes remiss
Subject to the role that it plays in our constructed illusion
That illusion which has become a reality

That reality which fades away
Once again into a whisper
A whisper, which becomes one with the sea of white noise
Which rises and falls to the pulse of life
Which builds and rebuilds
Becomes real and illusory
As it builds to a wailing symphony
Which is but cut short
As the fountain of life dries
And submits to the cold redress
Of death
Surely, but slowly the wounded man's sorrows

Becomes his greatest comfort

*Steve Solo*

His only world, our lives turn to
A series of unfulfilled tragedies
As the attachment to an injured condition
Grows ever stronger, as life's flame begins to burn out

A crystal eye
A scarlet sun
A passing day
A processing life

The sun begins to set
As its crimson rays signify the end to all who watch on…
Some in joy, some in sorrow, some in neutrality

How we can long for a true end?
Or for a new beginning?

*Gab Solo*