He took it too far; perhaps he was merely the last in line
The beacon to lead us home. . .
Two scars from the womb disassemble the clockwork man
Mid-chambered, like butterfly wings
Fragile just as well
Not of mortality, just the piercing eyes
That he could feel from every direction
Disowned by family and friends
In a twist of fate
That is regarded by some as the "Daimler-Tesla" summer fugue
Now, but eyes without a face
A cadre of fools squeal for induction into his Hall of Paranoia
Dissociative capsules now the only routine
Beyond the wall he calls
Ever so begrudgingly, shuffling through the snow
Could you imagine him, he who speaks in the "Royal We"
And he thinks if the pauper were only able
To call you into his den
No words
The disassembled clockwork man
Reassembled, orphaned
Got it backwards
Oyster perpetual movement, diamond bezel
In the cottony clouds and spindle-top darkness
Cover your mouth and get comfortable beside the fire
He can only hear you through his eyes
He can only tell you through your eyes
While you share stories and listen to the music in digital digital dreams
Nurse, nurse, please help the man in the middle
Why won't you talk to me?
What are you thinking!?