Through the clear glass,
I see the ruined remains of a beauty long past.
The sugar roses could not claim the redness of her lips,
The moon itself paled compared to her.
Through the clear glass,
The whip cracks to swipe those who do defy,
Its pain only melts into the bigger pool by,
As the resistance fuels it fury and pain darker than the night sky,
And the whip still cracks, relentless, unfeeling,
Though they have grown accustomed to the agony, it still leaves them reeling.
Through the clear glass,
The dreams winding like vines up the moonlit stone walls,
The despair drifting to the earth below where even the rain falls,
The dreams that grow just as the flowers do,
Just as the crescent becomes full after its cycle is through.
Through the clear glass,
A masked ball is being heartily enjoyed,
As the people relish the afterglow of the partying,
They walk away from the masquerade,
Sadly, still wearing their masks and not ever noticing.
Through these glass towers,
I see a thousand memories, all forgotten,
The wrongs and the rights,
Of evil men and scheming women.
And the heavenly flights,
Of the angel-spirits on lonely, moon-less nights,
Who hover to protect,
Those who refuse to be protected,
A people trapped in these towers,
And do not know how to break free.