Mark my words
Like you mark calendar,
With a bright red pen,
Because you'll be haunted by them
Like they are the date of your death.

I will wear your words and actions
Like burns on my skin.
A cloak of emotion.
Whatever you say or do,
I will show you what it means.

Blame me for something thats your fault?
Expect curled lips,
Growls and sharpened teeth,
Claws ready to fight.

Tell me you love me
Then leave me all alone?
Expect tears, punched walls,
****** fists,
Collapse.

There is a Frantic Masquerade, I've heard it said,
where masquers revel in moonlight in the dark city streets.
Their iron shoes burn a smouldering red
and compels them never end the song they sing with their feet.

There is a leather Curtain, made up of silence and shame.
They place upon each dancer's face as they waltz through the night.
They never share a longing gaze, never whisper a lover's name,
and as their souls lose their lustre, their iron shoes burn ever bright.

There is a lonely Ballroom of sad rain and cold concrete,
where masquers revel in terror at the symphony in their heads.
Their steps move ever faster, but their empty eyes never meet.
Hearts cold, they dance with hot feet, ere they're dead.

     There is a Frantic Masquerade, I've heard it said.
     Their icy hearts stave off passion's heat.
              They'll dance that way till the shoes burn through their head,
and only when the ice melts might their heart's dance be complete.