I am my dream as long as I mask myself, unseen.
I shield revelations as real and revolting as my tear’s bloody trail,
Employing pretenses as false as the façade that facilitates my lies.
Strangely, I’m rarely asked about this disguise I cleverly wear
So few hint of the obvious cracks and my cadaverous hue.
Does our silent questioning emanate from sweet, gentle kindness,
Or fears our own fragile bluffs will be vulnerable to crumbling?
Balanced (My goal)
There is symmetry