A Vault Without Turning

When a swirling collage of toothy grins, fibrous restraints, and bottled sedatives take formation, you are in a lair of puppetry. You will move and speak as they desire. Clarity turns into a blur as light shinning through a smudge. My honored guests have bound me. They press me soar for secrets I have buried in tuna and feed to my house cat. She is no longer able to purr. Neither do her claws retract. The dilatation of her pupils will not slim until her untimely passing. I have prepared well against this fateful day by absconding through a lesser being. The eldest of my esteemed company reveals that they have watched me with the full intent to replace my doctrine. This thing was not hid from me. There agreement seemed cunningly premature. Our conversations went down like a blended meal. They did not suffer me to chew on one kernel of contention. All was a wonderous affair confirmation. Upon understand that I could not easily remove them from my orbit, Lilly's saucer mounted high with her favorite fish. My head trickles with blood from a wound I receive at the hands of the youngest. Had the others possessed needle and thread, they would no doubt embroidered his vest with a badge. Shouts are mixed with the slamming of fists in almost a musical percussion. Which course of action is more appropriate in this moment? To confess or compose lyrics? I count the seconds in between my heartbeats realizing how wrong my assessment of Lilly prove to be. Her stomach is much stronger than I originally thought. First comes an effortless leap onto the sill of my open window. Then a delicate trot across the rusted fire escape. Before I can fully turn my head, the bow of a tree is bothered with noise and motion. Lilly finds a nest with hatchlings that she will not slay. Instead she improvises a gesture of motherhood and reverses my teaching into the mouths of hungry birds. At a girl.