Enslavement Of Beauty

Imagine the starry eyed audience chasing us through (the cold slop of) reality
exhibited as mannequins (in a menage a trois), our design would be their wounds
we would never follow the script, never pass them but a fake smile
and every movement would be motley, dispelled from morals
And in the sky there would never be any trace of angels
the virginal air would be vaguely transparent
yet it would always be somewhat bright
the wind would carry us
(through enormous roars of enthusiastic applause)