12 May 2012
Behind a mask of happiness You strut; Creating the "ideal" person: A "living" picture.
The supposed pinnacle of elegance, and perfection.
But you are no more than a picture; A shell, a mere shadow, vying from the light A distinct memory, frozen on your face From which you can not let go.
I see, and yet I sin, I sin, for you are dead.
Dead to the world, Dead to that memory, Dead to me.
Drama • Opuss № I