Must I sip from golden lies,
and smile beneath sugared sighs,
And wear the crown upon my brow-
while thorns grow silent in my mouth?

Must I speak and not betray
The rot that eats my voice away?
and dress in silk, yet stink of ash-
To bow besides the ones whod laugh and lash?

Must I hold my tongue, adorned,
Before the ones whod leave it scorned?
And dine where poison softly pours,
On plates they kiss behind closed doors?

Their smiles drip red beneath a glass,
Each laugh a bell for kings that pass.
Such wine is sweet - the cost is bone.
They toast me now. Yet Im alone.

They sing my name in softened breath,
Yet stitch that name in threads of death.
Their halls are gold, their hearts are lead-
Their kindness feeds on what has bled.

I wear the part. I play it well-
A smile wrapped tight around a shell.
But grace is just a quiet knife,
When mercy serves for second lives.

Let them feast. Let none see.
I left myself beneath those trees.
The rest remain to play the part-
In borrowed face and hollow heart.

Penned by my hand on the 1st of Aeguary, in the year 973 AF.