Angel Burlesque

A death's head,
A mark,
A gentle mistake,
Trickles slowly down the page.
She writhes,
She moans-
The world's her stage.

Struts,
And frets,
Puts on her show.
But no one knows,
Not even she,
Just who it is she's pretending to be.

Happy face,
Sad face-
Funereal masks.
What she wears-
She never asks.
Just dances a music box pole.

All eyes on her-
Or so she thinks.
What is the difference 'tween real and perceived?
Shrugs away the impertinent query,
With a hand against her breast.
(Eyes on her-
It's all she asks.)

A distraction,
A dance-
Straight around the point.
Terminal illness,
Lays seige to her ego.
If a big head's in her,
It's not her own.
Writhes and moans-
The world's her stage.

Dresses in blue-
Wears it in black.
If innocence had her,
It lost its grip.
God has no place in her frame of sin.

Forsaken,
She says,
As she climbs.
She figures,
No wings,
But I'll still fly.
Only to hit the floor,
Harder, harder,
Than ever afore.

A death's head,
A gentle mistake,
Etched forever on her page.
The mask conceals her angel's face.
She writhes,
She moans,
But does not ask,
Who she's pretending to be.