Masquerading As A Man

Is it still a mask,

If I wear it to my funeral?

What makes you smile? They ask;

Your stage is my confessional.

You said you were a puppet master,

I’d gladly be your marionette;

With every note you spun disaster,

Swaying to your tunes, my last regret.

You cut the strings, wound down the key,

Tired of this puppetry?

I’ve danced too long to this song, my love;

This masquerade’s all that’s left of me.