It's a strange awakening
Where we must tiptoe
Among the sleepers;
I spin like a dancer in a Cornell box,
Doily folded over like it's a portrait of the deceased
So the would-be revolutionaries cannot see,
For there is no truth in what I know,
My eyes are too obscure to enlighten,
Too much a window on my own soul.
I am just another bird on a unicycle.
There is something they need to be shown:
A precipice of their own.
