The Harlequin Makes Roses

The Harlequin Makes Roses

The harlequin walks with a mask of red,

Roses where a face should be.

People smile, they stop and stare,

They never think what they can’t see.

She hands out flowers made to fool,

Tied from ribbon, thread, and air.

They look like love, they feel like more,

however there is nothing there.

She doesn’t speak of who she was.

She never tells her name.

She moves like someone half-awake

Inside a quiet game.

She leaves no trace, she brings no fire.

She doesn’t miss, or try.

She watches others hold their hearts

And never wonders why.

At night she counts the things she’s made

A dozen lies, and a smile.

She tucks the mask beneath her coat

And walks alone a while.

The roses fall, the colour fades.

No one asks her to stay.

No one saw the girl beneath.

They only saw display.

So if she gives a rose to you,

Don’t think it means she’s kind.

She learned young to fake her love

Now she is emotionally blind.