Running Pinafore

She responds.  But where flies her beats?

I’m wandering, like random waves no one

hears.  At least they’re captured.  Wish she

were the cage.  That’s what wishing’s for,

I guess.  Comments in flocks, but the voice

bends ignorantly.  Somewhat amusing.

I guess.  Only music, with

her steps, breaths,

sets.  Only a follower.

Perfect gallery.  Guilty.

Take the images away, scraping

at sanity.  So I’ll keep them,


Here.  Consciousness commandeered.