Everyday we know, from our births to the ends,
We attend the ball, a never ending waltz.
We can go as we please, alone or with friends,
To the Masquerade, where we hide away our faults.
As the name would imply, we all wear a mask.
A false face to hide our intent or our truth.
The mask will remain, for some even in their cask,
A facade that we maintain till old age from our youth.
The rule of the waltz must never be broken,
And our truth must never be spoken.
For if there is but one thing we dancers fear most,
It is honesty, and the world that it wrote.
We are told from birth to respect the truth,
Yet we are also told to hide it with no traces.
For it is a wound that must never be exposed,
Left instead to fester under false faces.
We wear our masks to the ball, and follow its rules
Lest we be removed or worse, shunned.
Though they say they want to know who you are,
Their reactions are shocked, or stunned.
The shock is from the ugliness
Of what we really are.
For once you remove your mask,
All they will see are your scars.
The scars left behind by what we once were
And what we have become.
These scars are left by the wounds of truth
And truth’s price for freedom.
The fear of what the world will see,
Of us and all our faults,
Is why we never remove the mask
And continue to dance the waltz.