Masquerade

They hide their cold hues in their dark masquerade. Hoping none noticed the dark games they played. They know they're invisible, we failed to see. They put up thick lines that we can't read between. They hide behind curtains of crocodile tears. And practice the hate they gained over the years. They take pride in badness, in madness, in pain. They brag about all the good people they've slain. Their deep red eyes summon the brave through the storm. Who come back with no hearts, their faces - forlorn. They have no more passion, their love's all but naught. The valiant are thrown out, they've lost all they've got. And that is the fate of the good men who try. Their livestock is lost and their daughters all die. So shall we stop trying? (Not saying I'm good.) But still I hold on like the Engine that Could.