From guilt comes need; from need, a lie--
     the lie, a shield against the blame.
So bathed in sin, you must rely
     on hiding what you mustn't name.

Synthetic hope is vanity--
     a forgery in veils of smoke,
Distorting not just how you plea,
     but, too, the truth you know you broke.

Compounded sin, a crippling fall
     from which escape becomes a mire--
A muddy slough in which you sprawl
     'til darkness is what you require

To camouflage just who you are,
     the thing you did--the shame therein.
And so your mask will hide the scar
     you deepen with continued sin.

A masquerade--the sinner's ball
     where faces lie without a word--
The liars in their banquet hall
     of death that cannot be interred.