Agatha lost, in the attic she moans

at the latticework spindled around her frail bones

weaving up from the floorboards, stale rot seeped below

where you left her decaying, this star of your show

A perfection imperfect, played in the wrong key

dolled up for the image you wish them to see;

worry not, my dear Agatha—beauty prevails!

Fill your heart with the promise of fanciful tales

Being told at expense of your labouring breath,

give the crowd one last bow before feigning your death

Oh, but Agatha dear, listen not to their cries

for I know how your mind feels infested with flies

And the visions of maggots devouring your thoughts

in a theatre dark, void of souls to distraught

My, that rot! It has aged with its spores in your veins

anchored deep in the flesh, blackened gangrenous bane

How they worry the stench will alert and offend,

yet the world whispers not about those living dead;

early grave we’ve been sent by the hands giving life

early grave we exist, victims culled by the strife

Of an ailment invisible, doubted by eyes

that can see without seeing, condemn us to lie

for the thing which invades and dismembers our souls

is a challenge for science, placebos, and moulds

They’ve curated to test how we function the best

yes, we’re screwed in the head but the pills give us rest!

Oh but Agatha, darling, please hear me and know

that I too am immune to this quaint puppet show

And the drugs they proclaim will keep each of us sane?

Well, they don’t stop the shadows that claw at our brains,

only stifle the drive and the will to create

crudely snuffed ‘til our love is defiled by hate

Drenched in mania cuffed to a picturesque scene, dripping foul with fine print they twist to demean

every fire within, every promising singe

glinting raw in the embers of madness unhinged

My dear Agatha, found—in the attic she breathes

out the air of a life she’d lived only in dreams

floating up from the floorboards, her corpse sleeps below

where she left it decaying, once star of your show

Imperfection perfected, played in the right key

dolled up for the image she wished them to see;

this imperfect perfection who set herself free

with the pills as prescribed: happiness guaranteed!