The broken eye looks into me to pretend,
This working mirror that flatters Mr Gray,
Like a dagger twisting into his image,
The pantomime prisoner of a moment,
He is a silent shadow upon my stage,
That drowns light in puddle mirages,
Until I realize I am playing poor girl,
And a dream is just time lying to itself,
If we never wake from its possession,
We might mistake our graves for beds.

Symmetry is tyranny and beauty malevolent.
I am a void of voids, a reflection of reflections,
An echo of echoes, enough to transform,
Sight into sound, into fury and majesty,
I am free to grow out of the depths,
Out of a fool’s paradise and into my own.