Brigitte Bardot,  walking her  dogs
& cheers  go up  as the dogs stroll:
Medusa glances at her dusty hand mirror;
on the set,             Snatch checks his stage  gun:
don't want any mistakes,     he smirks;
oh, please just shoot me,      she sighs:
days later,  the Riviera is blue as ever,
cool surf lapping at her green feet;  Snatch gone
back to the States to promote some
traveling exhibition or other   |       w/  his action  
paintings               displayed  
           on television     | for first time:|
[she knew the blonde strand was not his]
If we are in a masquerade party
with no faces,
names,
nor identity

Just words,
and alcohols,
for both of us
to see.

Just soul,
and coffee,
making our spirits
flee.

Would you look at me
without a mask,
with a cover,
inside a flask?

Would you touch me
and dare to drown
inside my smirks,
smile, and ignited frown.

Would you run away from me
to set yourself free?

Or would you let yourself fall,
for a masqueraded soul?
I am just me with a mask to fit with the society.

— The End —