I miss the masquerade of shadows.Those days as cold as ice.Who am I? I'll never know, nor understand when they would speak to me.Their hidden faces would always confess within a twilight hour ,and just late of spring.There, and so dear to midnight ,are the monarch butterlies and milkweed plants.They have an eloquent look of beauty , but without souls to ever ponder any disappointment of human loneliness. There was once a strangers confession of June.