You spun the patterns
in the mainstream
I, caught in its maelstrom
expressions of old milk
and tall trees giving birth
to golden brown buds
you, stirred the bitterness
I, fled from life
impressions of dead words
and melodys grining
as if the notes-in-themselves
where in delight

The treason of a dark cloud
reflecting and protecting
its rythm and contour
then a marionette revolts
against the siege of the sky
its strings cut loose
and the earth trembles

A new shape and shade rises
the image of a fallen puppet
angry, victorious but alone
no one there to hear its music
unseen, unheard, unremembered
only seeing consequences
and the grim light from were
he used to hang

Now drawing sounds
from a theme that
distills a mirror for
the next fallen ones
to see
patterns destroyed
old milk erased
brown buds improved
whispers in the distance:
"laws are for thralls"