Masquerade Of The Gunslingers

Decadent, nearly divine
Their shadows dance like velvet moonlight.

In the mezzanine above they applaud
Transfixed by the dancers, silently awed
The sterling attraction the ballet of the gun
Murder in cold blood, as art in motion.

Masquerade! they rise and they fall.
A pirouette, in the cadence of song.

One mask falls down, another appears.

It's not what they see
It is what they believe
It is there, at the crux of their judgement
That the fantasy becomes the desire.

The tragic poem ends as it begun
And the men in the masks in death will live on.

Awash in gold and velvet, with wandering eyes
You feel it burning within you, you're paralyzed
Please take my hand, and step into the night.

The great dionysian facade
Is held upon our backs.

The callous belief in blood elegant
Perpetuating from fathers to sons
Spiraling down the grand halls of the dream.