By the night that does pass again,
Do look at this,
Do look at and look again,
Bust and portrait and so and so
with some compliment to the unworthy.
Some mile high mark of undeserved
and of the thing named ego.
This ode and ballad,
This tangent of the stage and word and gift.
Rolling through this performance with no ease,
No sense of what to know and yet not.
To sit and play with favored words and sleeping screens.
Wedded to their own state,
their own wheel and way.
Walking, talking, singing, with some unwanted
or unneeded idea.
What idea is love?
What cause and effect?
What hidden yet not so hidden
What dare, say I?