The Mask
I've found the second Phantom
The bearer of the mask
Far more intricate than that of Zorro
Far more caustic, it overrides sorrow
She, merely a dozen months less aged
It may be a she, but nothing left standing,
Not even dirt.
Her radiating adrenaline rushes
Her childlike feminineness
Her sugar stained teeth of pink and green
She was a phoney
Gleams and silent sniggers
Cold and hard, they sent the shivers
Witches and demons could compare
Homo sapiens alike, they rip and tear
A smile forms on the mask