A masquerade of perpetual fear,
          for all steps were in unison.
For who would misstep with
         unkept flames catching
                        each indiscretion.

Hollow melodies capture the soul,
           bounding it with this dance
of the dead, neither a  choreography
         but a chain of resonance
        where bones scrunch in fatigue.

The hell fire ball, where all burn eventually,
        Singed gowns, and suits charred.
But the devil is in the details,
and we shall dance till we bleed of die.

           Perfection is a demon of fulfilment...