Men are waiting patiently;

Remove me from the scene,

A sea of faceless souls in suits.

A sight for eyes, like thumbs;

Sore, crooked, and bow and foul relief.


You have been exposed.


Your eyes speak well of you.

They sing the requiem to

A closed-casket burial.

Your conspiracy;

Conspiring to deliver me to the authorities.

I have been betrayed so graciously.


My bloodhounds are hooked on a trail of ink

Which led me to the words you scribbled down;

An obituary dedicated to me.


Your fingers are star-crossed lovers that can't seem to get enough of each other.

This pantomime dialect doesn't practice what you preach.


I might as well be blind with isolated eyes like mine.