Your crying beauty
is dimed and muted
by imperfection
of three dimensions
and social presure.
"The nine to five people"
just can get neither
your love nor sorrow,
their eyes are hollow.
And when you're bleaching
your heart it's itching
still, for some vision,
divine mission.
So now your body
is a cage without a
silenced and missing
bird i've been listening
to for a whole season.