The Diseased Masquerade Ball

My heart has a fungus. Its scientific name: regret. It grows in all of the places, That when cleaning I often forget. It grows among the cobwebs, Where you used to sit. The side of the bed, That was never stripped. It feeds on every single word, That you never thought to say. Every thing my heart heard, Was a lie to lead me astray. The truth is sometimes hard to bear, So we lock it in a box, Where the fungus burgeons And soon learns to talk. My heart is weighed down with reality, I was happier believing you were with me. But despite all of my creations, I was drowning in a dead sea. Now, that I have severed your veins From my own and departed, The parasite slowly takes over, It preys on the fainthearted. At times like these I want you here, When in truth you were never there. My brain tells me to let it go, My heart tells me don’t you dare. But the fungus speaks a different story, One of hope and truth, A fairy tale that will only begin, Until I turn the page and discount the uncouth. Would a life created with deceits, Be more worthwhile, Than a life filled with horrible facts, And friends who created the term guile? I do my best not to heed, The temptations of the disease, But it’s hard not to agree, When it speaks so kindly to me. I cannot go back to you, But my heart beats a different tune. I cannot listen to you, But my ears perk up at the word soon. In a time of darkness, You were an open hand. Now I realize you caused the desolation Of my once verdant land. My ailment calls to me, Tells me to run back into your arms. But what it doesn’t realize Is that your love was only lustful charm. I’ll simply swallow my pills, When my heart starts beating slower. And I’ll down my medication, If my heart stops altogether. I need a specialist, This moldy heart is fading. I’m tired of dancing around the issue, Of all this sick masquerading.