Men are waiting patiently;
|
Remove me from the scene,
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A sea of faceless souls in suits.
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A sight for eyes, like thumbs;
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Sore, crooked, and bow and foul relief.
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You! Have!
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You have been exposed.
|
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Your eyes speak well of you.
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They play my requiem
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to a closed-casket burial.
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Your conspiracy;
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Conspiring to deliver me to the authorities.
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I have been betrayed so graciously.
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My bloodhounds are hooked on a trail of ink
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Which led me to the words you scribbled down;
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{An} obituary dedicated to me.
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{I} might as well be blind with isolated eyes like mine.
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Your fingers are star-crossed lovers that can't seem to get enough of each other.
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This pantomime dialect doesn't practice what you preach,
|
doesn't practice what you preach.
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-----------------
|
Venona
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| The Receiving End Of Sirens |
