There is a tune in the air.
Begging the question to dance or not.
And as the swaying begins.
The song  vanishes.
But the players go on.
With no music sheets.
Or their repective sound makers.
Like watching a mime orchestra.
And somehow people continue dipping and tossing about.
As if they were dancing to masters of thier craft.
It's hard to see anyones face due to the mime make up.
Making up this entire facade of a grand ball of sorts.
Yet the more time that passes.
The less control one has of a body soon to be apart.
Apparently placebos manifest wherever this is indiffernce.
Tears fall from the cheeks of this sad mime.
Decipherring their actual presence has been difficult for some time now.
Maybe it's time to wash on a new face.
And just fade away into the crowd.
A skill that has become more useful than air.
For living has taught that equallity.
Is a myth.
And adults choose the pain of adulthood.
So it can be passed down the generations.
To spoil one more dream.
Because its wrong to believe in fairy tales.
Or much of anything.