CAUTION

Is it wrong to long,

For conversation meek?

Its gentle and sweet manners,

Can surely tidy the unstrung lace.

Singers but cry with the most awful voices,

Which depletes the very sense of nature,

Monstrosity at every angle and every edge of the word,

Leaves silent stars hanging.

The pantomime begins,

And between pillars of what were gold,

Stuck, you find yourself,

Between brass and iron,

Rusted to the core,

Oh, hope, why have you left?

Is this the portion, mine violin plays,

The saddest tune it can find?

Hiding religiously behind strings

In beds of dead harmonies

I cry,

For once again I am left alone,

Behind a snarling game.