There is a portrait that is much like your face,
beneath the water, still and unbreathing.
As if looking out, but sightless as glass—
so like your eyes, but without the fire.
If you sent me a letter, it never came.
They must not allow you so many words.
Interpretation, like shapes that clouds make;
so like you are speaking, but without a voice.
And reaching for what you can’t touch,
you sold it all for nothing much.
Tell me, is it everything you dreamed?
You have no expression; all surface, surreal.
Nerves disconnected; you are dangling by wires—
and what did they get? A marionette.
So like you are moving when you are still.
They think they steer your every move,
but you’re not there to disapprove.
Tell me, is it everything you dreamed?
