Within that circle, I saw my forgotten mask.
That space between grace and emptiness: it held everything.
From words of silk and plastic, it changed.
Stagnant hearts and lucky spades,
And diamonds shattering titanium clubs:
I’d watched them all within that space, with a smile upon my untarnished mask.
The circle expanded and began to spiral,
Taking on the world as a whole.
Pieces of cards; the truth…if only
They were in my favor.

Without the past, I held the pieces apart,
And the shimmering came to a close in the mist.
And pain seemed to twist into a calmer storm,
Passing over like an expression.
Believing in the eyes is futile when all you see are jokers.
So, the curse returns with greater force,
And the starry-eyed wound shines again.

I speak of old friends, but they do not speak of me.
They slip away like glass: quick and slicing,
Become gentle before falling into the future, and look not back.
Now, they’re just distorted sentences,
But no truer words would be spoken.

The acme of deluded water; the pinnacle of spices in fruit;
The youth in all that has withered:
They surrender to the daybreak which refuses to repair itself.
Evening calls.  Do not terry,
For all is fruitless in this space: this space between self and other;
This mask before the stones of dysphoria;
The pieces of old toys, scattered across the world.
But still, ah, if only…