Behind the crafted mask you wear
I know what’s really hiding there.
Within the silken threaded lair
Lies a not so clever snare.
I step inside from light to gray
Knowing I will likely pay.
Fragile flowers I will lay
On the dark and dense decay.
The flowers rest upon the stain
Wilting as they soak the pain.
Their dimmed brightness is not in vain
Dark is lighter where they are lain.