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A click, a tap,
A drip, a stream,
A laugh, a dream,
A dancer on a map

Each step, a word,
Dancing a language unbound
On a misaligned grid
With no spoken sound

From beyond, eyes open
Splitting open from all around,
Preparing for a performance
Yet they do not cheer

The eyes fixate
Unblinking they lock in place
The dancer, painfully aware,
Pretends not to care

But steps grow heavy
The map starts to twist
The dance of hollow joy
Asks why it still exists?

In the end upon altars of fibers
The dancer bows
And dances to the holy Octothorp
The eightpointed dagger