I call it a palace - my life - gilded and draped in fine silks
I call it a palace - my life - gilded and draped in fine silks, where chandeliers shine like false smiles,
And the walls echo laughter that isn't mine, but beneath the velvet curtains lies the bruise of silence, a scream stitched with silver thread.
The hand that feeds wears rings - daggers with diamond tips hidden in affection, offering bread soaked in venom,
Each bite a betrayal masked as care, it builds me in marble grace, then carves my soul with every whisper.
I am the sculptor of dreams they present to the world, the architect of their tower-high pride, but my fingers bleed in the shadows,
Amputated from applause, like the slaves who carved cathedrals and were buried under their glory, I too am buried in perfection.
They say "You have everything", yes, everything but warmth, I sleep in a golden cradle that rocks on cold stone floors,
Love is just a painting on these walls - framed, admired, never truly felt in my frozen heart.
This house of mirrors reflects only masks, and I - just another cracked reflection - smile as if I'm stitched at the edges,
While my heart writes elegies in secret, for what is comfort without care, a throne without touch, when the hand that feeds,
Is the hand that kills - slowly, smiling, saying "I love you" through clenched teeth, building a palace of thorns and pain?
I am the prisoner of my own perfection, crowned with golden laurels that wound my brow, a king captive in his own glory.
Each compliment is a brick in the wall that separates me from true happiness, each praise - a new step towards isolation,
And I, the royal child raised in abundance, hunger for a crumb of authentic affection, an embrace without pretense.
In this palace of thorns, each rose hides a wound, each mirror reflects a lie, and I am captive in my own story,
A prince of sadness in a world of gold and crystal, dreaming of the freedom others consider poverty, but which for me would be wealth.
Copyright ©
Dan Enache
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