Like Oedipa Maas inching her neck out
Of a mirror’s stained glass frame
Only to reflect upon the salt fog
And pine-scented moss of her own tear-
Fed asylum, I would find myself locked
In the lack of some trigger: bogged down
If not walking dead with the horse-
Drawn movement of batteries running
Out of breath as I toggled against the flat
Steel backdrop to a world’s final stage,
Probing for a warp pipe or flagpole
Before again tripping off half of a pyramid.
With a belly flop, breaking through the moat’s
Shark-infested skin. That’s where the grim game
Blinks out with you grasping for a golden lock
Which, trailing from the tower’s top, stops just short.
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