A silvery mask
Presented with gleam,
To a world unseen,
To people that can’t see past themselves.
A wintery cold, a frost’s breath,
One must make warmth
Or else invite a type of death.
Questioning still the maker of my mind,
I glance to and fro, listening to the rumbling talk.
Shifting details and painted new facades
A mask for a masquerade’s ball.
One does as others do, if not for meaning, then for company;
A twisted world made right by another’s eyes
A person shaped and molded by.
A quest still to be the same person from the inside out,
Yet ultimately making from the outside in
Which is better? The question lies therein,
A questioning force of a butter’s wheel
Questing forth to a night of zeal,
where masks are placed in the place of a true façade.