The Acapella Conqueror

Concrete Jungle

Strings descended from his arms and legs,
abrasions created.
His mouth, a masterpiece of woodwork .
Sew strings in and out of his skin, he bleeds tunes, creating a puddle of black yet crimson on the ground below from which he hangs above.

The Music takes over him.
His body, a slave obeying each command the beat demands.
His head spinning like a merry-go-round.

S H A T T E R E D  P I E C E S

Time waits for no man.
This Beat is his Puppeteer. There is no way out, the button is stuck on repeat.

''Dance being Dance!''
__Yes Master.

Do Re Mi Fa
So it has been done.
Aches more than a migraine.
Does it not?
Confusion,
complicated as a mind game.
Is it not?

When the sun turns away into the clouds the world starts to darken.
So dark, yet black.
His master returns to play.

Bounded in captivity. He will never know. 

He has never known.

He has altered into an untamable midnight raver, akin to a 90's trick.
Strikingly selfsame to an illusion of a thousand vintage chariots.

Musical stampede

He has become a night-life raver.
A ruckus in the alley.
How long will you keep dancing governor?

Scissors are made for a reason, how long till you cut your strings loose governor?

Any mental activity you have thought of is accompanied by an unending crescendo.
S C R E A M I N G
Yet your background still processes a diminuendo.

Soon he will break free, soon Music, yes You Music,
You will dance to the mortal's beat.