The Crimson Harvest

Made to fit the prompt "Le Bal Masqué". Published in the mini mag with the same name by Savoír Revue. Follow the link to see the magazine.
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From whom do we hide our precious pride?
The rise and design of those who pour wine,
Or from those who seek to do us harm?
How they spin in filtering circles,
Oh— How they lack any charm.

To me, my dear, the truth is due.
To you, my love, nothing’s anew.
But what stops us from enjoying this night?
Come closer, and closer,
There’s no need to fight.

To hear the music, oh! It does play,
I’ll hold you in my arms, together we’ll sway.
And under our wicked, bold-faced facades,
We’ll dance, pressed together,
until there’s applause.

The debutantes and beautillions, ignorant, will cheer.
Meddling only with those they find in upper spheres.
But all those white horses, they linger just outside.
Standing ever as a reminder,
Of those drunk on bitter pride.

And when the grandest of fathers chime,
He’ll sing his song, we’ll know the time.
Vacate the hall, for crimson’s curse.
We’ll watch them run,
Oh— how they’ll disperse.

No one will know who was under the mask.
Hardly any will have a voice left to ask.
But there’s one thing for certain, they’ll come to know,
Sow the wrong seeds,
You’ll harvest their woe.