The Hostess

Her secrets to reveal, the hostess sits in a dimly lit room with shadows residing there.

With sharp scissors and ice-clear eyes, she cuts images twice, not once.

Her blade whispers the paper; images of pleasure vanish now.

Now faces smiling split in two, echoes of life she never knew.

Her fingers move, a macabre ballet cutting memories to translate night to day.

Every cut a piece of the masquerade, her humming is like a ghost serenade.

Fragments fall, just as autumn leaves do.

Her fantasy deceive her; a patchwork of dreams.

Eyes come back; dead and cold,

Their hushed, always whispered tales still exist.

She duplicates them in a book of horror, a gallery of the dead, the hopeless.

Every page turned, a scream, a shiver, a tear, a cry.

Lost in her horror and fantasy.

A horrible chime announcing the end of awful time, the clock runs on.

The hostess smiles, her work completed; in this odd display, her soul’s dishonesty.

In that darkly lighted room where shadows groan, the artworks mourn and spirits lament.

For the hostess’s sharp and very unforgiving sword, cuts more than images; it shreds the invisible.