To us, whoever 'we' are.
We Have Exited the Burning Building
You are held together by simpering strings
and I by the dust flying about my eyes.
I am your shy diva, and you are Lord Byron -
we are international drama royalty.
We are now, but we could be more.
We could cut ourselves from these puppet strings
and follow the shadows of our neglected footsteps,
for as long as we like, as you like, as I like.
This is the operating word, then:
We. An algebraic dance I've promised to you,
and the angles shall leave us alone now.
We were not meant to be inhibited.
A million theories on the relativity of death,
a million deaths occured during the process.
Words or lives, we or 'you and I.'
(A feast of music,
the bundle of stick-people
milling about with stiff joints and joints stiffed.
Who is in the right,
The winner is undecided.
A recount is demanded.
I have died in the process,
another life lost to
frequent flier miles and
stick-shift manuals of the hungry,
the automobile industry.)
I am weak as a baby, then,
compared to your backhanded freeform style.
You never say those words anymore:
'You are just like me.'
We are a 'we,' or are we?
We used to be.
May I have this blindfolded, forfeited dance, please?