Masked Ball

A gathering of pretenders,
a promenade of masks and veils alike,
people who meet and dance under the cover of one special night.
Yet among these guarded deceptions occurs an unguarded verity
between two conscious souls.
A fleeting sighteous glance.
A suden spark at the grazing of skin,
the possibilities vitalized by a mere touch.
The world freezes around them, and all else begins to fade,
as two floats constantly glimpse each other, losing sight of the parade.
The rotational procession around the room begins.
While the mind's eye perceives the possibility of the future's sins
the outside viewers constantly return to the spark as if on frivolous whim,
though in truth they seek only him for her and only her for him.
The calm may have settled before the storm,
but within lies the tumultuous quaking,
still others don't notice the four hands a-shaking.
Shaking and shivering because both the urge are fighting
as if they'd be guilty of shadows entwining,
or maybe in the simple human delighting
that could occur after such a sensual sighting.
But at the end of the night, when the flute's songs recede,
and the floating facades are preparing to leave,
they too leave as they came,
but whether they're shy, or whether for shame they don't know,
and this question they ponder
as they hike up her skirt and his coat tails to go.
That night while they sleep or return to another,
they'll wonder why their face they continued to cover,
and in their dreams the dark possibilities will hover.
When the next day begins, lost is their chance
to proceed with an impulse on that tempestuous glance
with the simplest greeting or even a dance,
dooming themselves to wonder and fret
about why on that night they were so very set
on preparing themselves for the next day's regret.