Well, Matt, here we are again, you upon your canvassed stage,
And I, spying earnestly like some orchestra pit fiend,
To watch you once again play God for the glory of my distraction.
As if that was all -- and a step simultaneously missed and dead-on
Split some crucial circuit deep within me and beat in graceful arrhythmia
And sparked -- catching meager glimpses of...her,
That rush, that swarm of fantastical, purple-rooted flesh,
Typing tender buttons, felling men with a vicious, gyrating arc,
I couldn't help but obsess myself with this orphaned warrior,
It was as though my impossible ideal were forged by your foreign hand
And then left for my misery, trapped for all time behind a tube of damned glass,
While the world turns its cold look upon her, and on me as well,
For her I prefer to them all -- that final heat of a dying race, burning out
But gently shutting, like a single, sweet iris, a tangent in my dreams.