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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required A masquerade ball was in full concert when A charming young man stepped in He bore a green tunic with gold trim Mask devilish with a wry grin His mask bore five feathers atop his brow In full view of the whole of the crowd The music stopped and no servant bore his name No mark of royalty or note of fame Who is this man whispers a girl A mystery man, man of the world His eyes a radiant green breaching the mask The music starts with a nod no questions asked His manner quite and shy though confident Both hands resting behind his torso defiant Utterly refusing any hand placed before him A mission is what makes him grim One girl and only one is his treasured fox She is sitting at a table near the clocks A common girl young enough for school A starving pain runs through him almost cruel A slow melody is played by the maestro The gentleman gaze at him to and fro A hand his placed before her tired eyes Shear delightful sounds as she cries An angry man in a red mask stalks toward them When an older woman steps in front of him “Let them go” She says “Why should I” eyes furiously red To the center of the dancing floor they stroll The beat picks up with a flick from maestro Soft beats sound as they come together Then silence…..weightless like a feather A dazzling dance wows the place Enough so to put awe on each face After the last step and last beat coincide Their masks come up no more reason to hide Their lips meet and cheers break out Like those at a fight awaiting the bout The commotion was too much for the old man He stumbled forward to greet the brigand A chase commenced with the house guards Even some of the house bards The Youngman fell and was detained quickly Then a sound arose from the courtyard sickly The sound of a sword piercing flesh A pool of blood and a mess Unveiling his mask bore only a lad At this the old man felt sad The young girl never knew what became of him Her father detailed his absence to be of a decided whim In reality he survived after his body was left for dead A long fever and a month in bed A preacher picked him up and healed his impaled breast With medicine and well needed rest He awoke later to a dream of his lady fair When he smelt the perfume of roses in the air A second chance the preacher stated Yes it was not to be he debated Now he is an old man sitting and writing this tale Letting my grandson know not to bail For I will leave it in my will for his eyes only!
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