Masquerade

Such massive delicacies laid on the cloth adorned tables,
But I was not one to partake in treats.
The sweets were icing topped and crafted intricately,
But the masked men were what kept me on my feet.
They twirled aimlessly round the halls,
Holding their partners tightly with ringed hands,
The jingles and chimes were fragile music to my ears,
But I sought the masses for the lone masked man.
As my journey grew desperate, I regained composure,
Swinging about on light feet where the linoleum beneath
Made a rat-tat-tat as I twirled and spun in salaciousness,
As the other men, I uninterested, swarmed around me.
They were like moths to a flame, I as the fire,
Made a blitz spurt forth from their eyes and aching fingers,
I felt the cinders geyser and tumble underfoot,
I ignored this, of course, but the burning had still lingered.
They were all aching for my touch, and I was a weaver,
Using personality as my thread, I wove a fine Valentine evening,
Every flame must be distinguished, and I knew this as well,
But I refused to be reduced to ashes, the flame wasn’t leaving.
Even with my ceremonial guise and their salt-licked limbs,
And the whitewash tumbling from their eyes like waves
I knew I must keep moving on my feet, for a flame must flicker,
But they grew tired, but I, desperate, sparked their raves.
They accepted nothing from me, and turned tail as I diminished,
A small comflagaration beneath the feet of the masses,
As my flame was quashed, and I witnessed their elation,
I knew unlike a phoenix, I would never rise from the ashes.