Am I a Hyacinth in a field of lies,
Or a shadow that blooms where the daylight dies?
You call me beautiful—a rose without thorns—
But roses are wilted, and petals are worn.
Let the wind shut your eyes as night butterflies soar;
They flutter on secrets, but I ask for no more.

The mirror whispers what I wish not to hear—
That beauty is borrowed, that truth disappears.
Yet I’ll play the charade, wear the mask till it cracks,
For a lie is much kinder than what reality lacks.
I know where deception and desire entwine,
But I’ll drink from that cup and call it divine.

In a world where the surface is all that they see,
What harm in pretending that mask is me?
They say looks can deceive, but darling, so can the mind—
So let them believe in what’s easy to find.