She was the darling star that danced in his eyes,
A rapture of innocence too divine.
For such a flower, I’d give her the world,
So one day he gave her his eyes.
But what he felt was a trembling hand,
No trace of a smile, no crease at the eyes.
“The horror, the terror, the monstrosity of it all!” she cried,
“Take them back, my love. I’d rather be blind.”
You’ll find the gold,
Then throw it over your shoulder,
and dig some more.
Sometimes I wonder,
If I were you to see you again, what would I do?
Would I run? Would I stare? Would I pretend you weren’t even there?
I may have tucked you away under a blanket tight,
But you still tug at the end of the line.
It don’t take no marvelous interpretation,
Or Deerstalker hats,
To see that his Misery was in demand,
For the company of her small talk,
To fuel ill-minded thoughts.
Perhaps the red lights were too subtle for his eyes.
I buried myself in your subtle captivity,
It was diplomatic delicacy.
I lost my footing and slid into your arrest,
Yet you didn’t seem to address that it was sentimental feeling.
I was fiddling for keys to a coded lock,
To open affectionate Apathy,
But you had receded into nothingness,
The chance of finding you was unlikely.
And maybe I shouldn’t have asked,
What the cat was looking for in the bag,
Because maybe it was a mindless fool,
With inadequate questions.
Perhaps your idea of how jokes worked was different (from mine),
Because when I knocked, you didn’t answer.
You really were only suppose to perform,
Yet you seemed to be directing this incompetent drama.