It's all for the love
(Which is all for the show).
The quiet thrill of the hunt for thought
Bites off my tangled tongue.
All fluttering eyes to the front
As my body trimmers from behind their vision.
Who's handling the supervision of
Whatever and whomever to call my mind?
The lips of my young mouth
Already engraved with the deep scratches of time.
Words drift the cracks
Only to be damned before they soar into light.
My weakness is no source of pondering pride.
I would hang my head
But the ice of the theater bulb
Stiffens my brittle bones
Strictly to face my judgment-day north.
"Go forth with the onward march!"
They shriek and they prod.
I hear the echoing slam of the tick of the tock.
I stand right there and shatter on the spot.