Danse Macabre
I've surrendered thought for vanity
time for possibility
possibility for routine
and individuality for perfection
but how I long to wear that mask
even conscious of its tackiness and tattered edges
the sham of it all
and learn to fake it
learn to hide, disguise flaws, manipulate imperfections
turn myself into someone else, yet
do not fret, for I am true to you alone,
although it was a deceitful tongue that told me,
I the raven and you the dove
you might as well have advised me to sacrifice a hand
to save a finger,
for these are the things I have made forfeit in your epithet, vanity
my innocence, my youth, my dignity
lost to those times when the mind is unquiet
gnawed through with restless thoughts
for longer than I has beauty been defined,
bound by thread and dye
pigment and illusion
every woman a cookie-cutter whore
to equate beauty with love
no more, alas- I am
now a raven, once a dove
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