because they watch it in their minds
they read a truth between the lines
vision led with bend hands and spines
they do not see they are the blind

and when the cycle starts again
adventures on a distant plane
as eager moths into a flame
yet they dont move they are the lame

no need to plot about the loot
the meanings too deep to dispute
but whispers quit on the astute
and they speak not they are the mute

the freedom found in their undress
in the pretend of life's big mess
and play the song on stolen breath
and they dont hear they are the deaf

Penned by my hand on the 13th of Tenebrae, in the year 59 AM.