Could a smile mask a thousand wars,

If a heart were made of glass and gold?

Could you run from a fate forever yours,

If a lie were truth, if truth untold?

Beneath the polish,

  a pulse beneath the wood —

a feeling we call smallish,

  words that sound better than they should.

A mask we wear to hide our souls,

our fake careers, our careful tones.

This thin veneer — chipping away;

beneath perfection, the slow decay.