I wandered in, to where wondering is fondly mused upon. It goes by many names, and parades in foreign clothes

The stage, the lights, the sewing turned to fencing... the path from smirk to bed runs now through the hedge and with detours through a lute. I stare around the room... no one's looking back... Is this music a sound is made when two or more things interact?

They see with lidless callousness, and speak a toneless liturgy and lay down rugs to cover blood I'm losing to the song the peacock plays... On it goеs... this show... this ritual...

(when suddenly...)

...Do I know you?
Blink once for truе...
Or just keep looking
If looking's what you really do...
Or (better yet)
Just turn around

I'm screaming now -they still don't hear a sound- this trap and its trapping... I'll snap if you don't turn around. Go on now clap along -it's been too long, and I've been wrong. What's one more lifetime here tonight I'll draw with your face this time?

(I mean...) I've lived a million lives with many by my side in-the-stage-of-my-mind. We do this dance in rooms -these rooms are everywhere and all the same- with all the children of the court dressed up as beggars, or as thieves

-all raised within these walls- but sing as though they've seen the sea...

The sounds that come from the phonograph confuse me: all novelty referencing a vague emotion aesthetic in appeal

(Meanwhile...)

Magpie and Peacock carry on on-stage and plug the strings they made... from hair they stole from their own fathers beards! And though your wings reference The Monarch impeccably you still take your seat as the Viceroy. And though Mockingbird you get the first verse to-a-tee...
You never reach the end of sparrows song it's just too long...

I'm screaming now -they still don't hear a sound- this trap and its trapping... I'll snap if you don't turn around. Go on now clap along -it's been to long, and I've been wrong What's one more lifetime here tonight I'll draw with your face this time?

-This is madness: to brown to be the first to fall

I ache so. They still don't hear a sound, this trap and its trapping, I'll snap if...

(...oh you get the point.)

My Brazzen Bull is on the inside of my skull. What death the caged bird dies -who knows the soaring view- and must strum it's song with clipped wings to rocks and bones

(and this goes on until it doesn't...)

This is madness

...Do I know you?
Blink once for true...
Or just keep looking if looking's what you really do...