388. 7/1/16 (#381)
By the will of sleep's hand,
Are a stage for the unwilling.
No mask will hide me,
My face brittle enough,
To serve as my glass-eyed martyr,
While blurred strings bind my wrists,
Lift my limbs to work.
Taught harsh by taut strings,
To pose in progression,
To dance to tunes the shadow sings,
And turn and twist and paint his expression.
But break now with dawn, my wires!
Release now your hold,
Let me wake and walk and dance alone,
To my own tune,
In my time.