𝘐 𝘥𝘪𝘥𝘯’𝘵 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘯 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥-𝘪𝘯-𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 500 𝘴𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘴 𝘰𝘯 𝘚𝘶𝘯𝘰,

𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘢𝘺 𝘢𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘦 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘴𝘩𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘮𝘢𝘴𝘬𝘴.

𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘷𝘦𝘴,

𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘸𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘥𝘰 𝘪𝘴 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘳 "𝘺𝘦𝘴" 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘺𝘮𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘳𝘺.

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘔𝘢𝘴𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘥𝘦 𝘋𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘦𝘵𝘭𝘺 𝘪𝘯 𝘮𝘺 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘮𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘩𝘴.

𝘐𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘸𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘯 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘩𝘶𝘴𝘩 𝘰𝘧 𝘶𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘳𝘵𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘺 𝘢𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘢 𝘳𝘶𝘱𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘦.

𝘐𝘵’𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘺 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘰𝘯 𝘪𝘯 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘪𝘤𝘶𝘭𝘢𝘳.

𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘪𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘱𝘪𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘣𝘺 𝘺𝘰𝘶.

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘴 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘧𝘳𝘦𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘱𝘢𝘤𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘮𝘦,

𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘩 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘢𝘤𝘳𝘰𝘴𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘳𝘦𝘴,

𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘬𝘦𝘦𝘱 𝘮𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬.

𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘮𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘵 𝘮𝘦𝘢𝘯𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘦𝘯.

𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘵 𝘤𝘰𝘴𝘵𝘴.

𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘵’𝘴 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘩.

𝘐𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘴 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘰𝘯𝘦… 𝘪𝘵’𝘴 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘮𝘦.

𝘚𝘰 𝘐 𝘪𝘯𝘥𝘶𝘭𝘨𝘦𝘥 𝘢 𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘵𝘭𝘦.

𝘗𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦, 𝘣𝘦 𝘱𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘪𝘵.

𝘛𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘬 𝘺𝘰𝘶.

𝘛𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘥𝘪𝘥𝘯’𝘵 𝘧𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘩.

𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘦𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘤𝘪𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘺𝘦𝘥.

𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘥𝘢𝘳𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴.

𝘐 𝘩𝘰𝘱𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶’𝘭𝘭 𝘬𝘦𝘦𝘱 𝘸𝘢𝘭𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘮𝘦.

- 𝙖𝙡𝙢𝙖 🖤 𝙗𝙡𝙖𝙞𝙧 -

⎺⎺⎺⎺⎺⎺⎺⎺⎺⎺⎺⎺⎺⎺⎺⎺⎺⎺⎺⎺⎺⎺⎺⎺⎺⎺⎺⎺⎺⎺⎺⎺

🖤 𝙎𝙥𝙤𝙩𝙞𝙛𝙮: https://open.spotify.com/artist/2VCdgYo4f5iSIcLouGV89j

🖤 𝙔𝙤𝙪𝙏𝙪𝙗𝙚: https://www.youtube.com/@AlmaBlairDFP

🖤 𝙏𝙞𝙠𝙏𝙤𝙠: https://www.tiktok.com/@almadfp

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The Prince Prospero—happy, dauntless, wise,

Organized a ball of veils and lies.

Grotesque the masks, with phantasm spread,

Arabesque limbs where mad fancies led.

There was much of the beautiful, much wanton shown,

Much of the bizarre, and the terrible grown.

Not a little disgust in the forms they displayed—

It was a voluptuous scene, that masquerade.

She crossed the threshold and stilled the air,

With porcelain skin, black gown, and burning stare.

The ballroom stilled—no one dared to ask,

What guest would enter without a mask?

There are chords in the hearts of the reckless, still,

That tremble with passion against their will.

Even the lost, who laugh at the grave,

Know love is a vow no fool ever gave.

He saw her move, the throng gave way,

Her steps a hymn no choir could play.

Through Beauty’s halls he pressed, inspired,

A rapture fierce, a heart conspired.

From sapphire halls to violet gloom,

He chased her towards the final room.

Through green of youth, through white of age,

Desire inscribed on every stage.

There are chords in the hearts of the reckless, still,

That tremble with passion against their will.

Even the lost, who laugh at the grave,

Know love is a vow no fool ever gave.

He reached for her face, the ribbon untied,

Illusion unraveled, the Masque denied.

No void, nor demon, nor ghastly 'guise—

But truth too stark for mortal eyes.

A beauty undone, a grace betrayed,

The jest of love in silence laid.

What he beheld no lips could say—

But rapture itself was torn away.

It was only a game, a masquerade dare,

Why did you reach—why strip it bare?

Now nothing is jest, and nothing can heal,

You made it too real, you made it too real.

There were chords in the hearts of the reckless, still—

Now silence has taken what passion would fill.

Even the lost, who laugh at the grave,

Lie quiet—no vow, no Masque left to save.

The dance is ended, the hall lies bare,

And death is the truth we both must wear.