I stare and the more I stare the more it is clear
I am not there, no more than the Cheshire cat
Who is the man with the small cup of tea?
And why is he toasting me?
The faucet, the running water, all melodic
As are the songs from the wee characters running through the glass
I look again, and such a nice smile but certainly that is not all
Where did I go, can I be found, I feel so small and ever shrinking
Is there still time, time…Oh I have another duel with queen of swords
To some the queen of hearts, but I have none, at least not now
The queen has had it since I began my journey
The pain is almost numbing and I rarely feel much more than a prick
But I will attempt to fight, hate to break stride, especially now
I am too used to death; I die daily, sometimes twice
The rabbit bids me to follow, but to where it leads?
I am certain only deeper into the abyss, is there anywhere else?
Certainly not, I have not known of it
The water has ceased, and now beads of perspiration drip
From the flesh of the absent and frail
Does it matter, not to some, but other disagree
What about the smile, is it really me, really?