From a colloquy of frozen statues
No spark is made
A resting arm on a lifting lung
And you walk away.

Rippling echoes through these empty halls
Sending them colder and farther
How do I make them move from death?
Make room for that martyr.

Will I pull our strings like marionettes
Have us sing for me
Or will I listen to our cries for help
The fading symphony.

Better to salt the wound and let it numb
Than to let it fester
Allow me to enter stage: existence!
– Your Jester.

16.I.24