Escaping unspoken promises, the landscape moves on,
Like a dying actor, its mask is gone.
The mask dipped in blood of deep despair
Becomes a mosaic window reflecting life's glare.
Disappearing behind stones and feathers of brilliant hue,
Appearing to rescue while giving revenge its due.
Courting fantasy and fiction,
Juggling notice and mystique,
An honest hypocrite of folly, leaving the landscape bleak.
Death is like a folded box
Containing treasures we hold dear.
Move it gently by the window.
I will look another year.
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