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.
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.