Masquerade

Fervent servants serve as pallbearers
at the parade;
servants of mine, bear with me;
I have a greedy facade.
A lonely parade,
with none but creeps for decades.
A phony parade,
marchers are weeping to be made.
It was a graveyard,
a desperate attempt to shine hard;
all failed to be heard
by the ears of the dying shepherd,
who was also a servant of mine.
All his sheep are dead,
and yet he sleeps without dread;
because a book of me, he read,
and no tears were shed.
All fears are fear of me;
yet I fear everyone,
because right in front of me,
I see a broken gun.

An empty queue;
I see no queue.
It was a corrupted form
of my memories.
It was a repressed form
of my enemies.
A darkness that I can see through,
I can't see through;
now it's just me and a few
of my servants anew.

Hiding in my own burning, dried out land;
and being incinerated myself,
by my servant's own hand;
it set fire onto itself,
because it doesn't know myself.
Because it didn't know itself.
Because it never knew oneself.
Because it hid its own self.
I'm repeating myself,
because I can never repeat myself
in front of all my servants' selves
as all our faces are shelved.