You may, perhaps,
reinvent,
slough your self
like outgrown skin
and wear a new face;
but, though the cocoon,
may release a butterfly
there's still a grub within.
And, your lover
may think he strokes velvet
when he touches you
but, in the darkness,
when he sleeps against
your back and
silence strips away
your masque,
you remember the scales
beneath.
A Wordmongers' Masque: Poets' Ball entry