Your head turns away slowly
And i know from that one moment
Its over
I see a side of your face
That i never noticed before
A darkness of shadows
A cold flat marble top
It was always so easy for me
To transform into the jester
The knave, the pious and broken king
Waiting to serve and be served
As a piteous wretch
I quashed my hunger
Taught myself to live for others
Not for my own heart
But as a parasitical tendril of want
Mistletoe as a golden bough
For others i laughed
For others i acted
A puppet on stage
The stringless marionette
All of the Russian writers taught me
To look inwards
To find my reflection
In a dandified past
L’etranger mon frere