They walk around as though no one shot her.
Keeping the surrounding monster’s charade.
Walking through life, lamb to the slaughter.
The lotus hid inside its masquerade.
Two of alike kind, bound to the same path.
Both, for a long time, the sun had not shined.
Unlike most first love, ‘twas pure, albeit crass.
One was another, life and death lay entwined.
Only they, born to the lotus, know its cost.
Consequences brought upon through the drum.
Ignorance, happiness, love, pain, most lost.
When they lay in quiet they hear a hum,
“Deaf or not, it is and isn’t, nature unnoticed;
This, the masquerade of the deaf lotus.”