In the room where whispers weave,
Lies float like feathers on the breeze,
With every glance, a hidden sieve,
Sifting truths from false decrees.

Masks are worn with practiced grace,
Smiles that never reach the eyes,
Beneath the surface, a tangled lace,
Of twisted truths and artful lies.

Through corridors of muted light,
Shadows stretch and softly creep,
In their dance, they lose the fight,
Against the conscience that they keep.

Yet in the quiet of the night,
Truth stands firm, unyielding, stark,
Piercing through the crafted blight,
Bringing light where once was dark.