Like ice knit dolls in chains,
Bitter strings wrought through our veins
To question whether mirrors are sane
Oh, is reason not a grave?

Still we sit – a frozen mage
Perched atop their lifeless stage
Only left a void display,
So the tie can slip and falter.

Already there is a hollow gaze
Uttered by our idle phase
How many lips must they break,
Until this show is seen a halter.

Now they take out all out lungs,
As we lose those feverish tongues
To stroll around in sickening gowns
Made of frosting skin.

Soon we will not have pure eyes –
For it will be a mere disguise
And what foul error is there to see,
But perfect, kindred, tragedy