O my dearest endeavour, you have finally embodied your nearer ones, I envisioned the footsteps you follow now, With the slightest misconception, to massage them past them Hideous walk-ons. Dear, O my cool eve, you have befriended all my enemies, For all I mistook to be out of generosity. The parades, the charade, of the perfect shade of pink, Glazed in shiny white neck armours and handsy weaponry At the dip of phalanges, sunken yellow like a Golden Globe speech your silence rings My very own muse, talk about the stage you hold audience to— The show of your own, the show of perceptual reality, Where I no longer hoard the podium to announce the performer, The artist, the audient gone unalive the vacant dice I roll off your life. O my muse, what magnificent mockery.