blue-baked and scattered
on the outside looking in
hung on strings called freedom
puppeteers of fond chagrin
nod of disapproval
digital delight
don't go near the water
or you might die of flight
earn the inner circle
it's a bubble made with soap
bleached white antiseptic
void of spectrum's hope
you won't find your pot of gold
we've got it in our bank
but you will sing our praises
as the empty hits your tank
feed us with your high esteem
you don't need your clothes
we will tell you who to blame
and how your west wind blows
so stop your introspection
let sleep consume your head
and we will show you what to think
while you die of regret.