The Harlequin


Bruised, she ached but showed no pain;
Hurt, she bled but hid the stain.
Her mirrors bidden out of sight
Could not betray the cursed fright.

In private moments she would dare
Concede the wound disguised with care
But never would another see
A shade of fear or trace of need.

She worked to hide the trespass lines,
The telltale gray not hard to find
And dressed in bright bravado red,
She gave no hint of a lonely bed.

She hid her eyes and clothed her soul
Behind a smile, the truth untold.
So often was the mask in place
One day she knew it was her face.

And when the act was polished bright,
The costumes bought, the make-up right,
She could not fathom why she cried;
It was her script, her child of pride.

About Dee Dickson

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