You.

You Quicken me once more;
Slander all that I create,
though your shape takes many Masks,
you Qritizice my art,
For your hate needs take its place,
place in Another,
That which you try to control,
no place Inside you reflects my face,
For your Mask takes its shape.
Breathless. Squandering, I will leave you;
with the Mortal view of my Back,
Strings dragging in the dust,
trailing off the Stage into the Dark,
Left to your own kind,
Your Masks disilluding your fate,
staged lights blinding your Eye.
The Audience. Dear crowd, left You alone;
shadows Laughing on the wall,
you remeber how They judged you;
so, too quickly you judged Me.