The Mask

In the garden of my soul, a rose blooms bright,
Its petals whisper secrets in the night.
But thorns lie hidden 'neath the crimson hue,
A paradox of beauty and of pain, too true.

An eagle soars through skies of endless blue,
A symbol of my dreams, lofty and few.
Yet bound by chains of iron, unseen,
The freedom that it seeks, a distant scene.

I speak to shadows dancing on the wall,
Their silent whispers echo, rise and fall.
Apostrophe to phantoms of the past,
Their truths and lies entwined, a shadow cast.

In search of purpose, wanderer am I,
Through mazes of the mind, I drift and sigh.
A journey not for gold or fleeting fame,
But to unmask the heart, to claim my name.

Written by Lora Tia