Behind the mask of porcelain skin, I sleep where silence used to sing. The clocks are bleeding hours in reverse, Each tick a curse, each breath — a verse. They stitched my shadow to the wall, A marionette, I start to crawl. The chapel burns with choirs of glass, The past returns in shattered mass. And still the curtain never falls, The echo screams through velvet halls. No end, no dawn, no whispered close — Just ghostly light and wilted rose. A mirror cracked with every plea, Reflects the “me” that shouldn’t be. Who writes the script in blood and bone, And makes the soul die all alone? The final bow, a breathless stare, Applause from shadows in the air. This opera — a cursed refrain, Where love is loss and joy is pain.
