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Hatters Lament
I am the Hatter, mad and bold,
My mind a furnace, my heart cold.
I sit with a smile that twists in the dark,
A crooked thing, like a jagged mark.
Tick-tock, the clocks don’t care,
They race, they mock, they tear the air.
The seconds drip like crimson thread,
And I hear their whispers—my twisted dread.
I made the hats, yes, every one,
But now I’ve forgotten what’s been done.
The fabric frays, the stitching breaks,
And from my seams, the madness wakes.
Tea, dear tea, it stains my hands,
A brew of blood from forgotten lands.
I sip and I sip, but I never quench,
For the thirst inside me—it's not for a bench.
Oh, you think I’m a fool? A jester? A dream?
But in the silence, I hear it scream.
The laughter’s too high, too wild, too free,
It echoes in corners where none should be.
The mirrors crack and the glass does weep,
For the reflection is mine—yet it’s not mine to keep.
My face grins back with hollowed eyes,
A face of madness wrapped in lies.
My fingers twitch, my mind’s gone dim,
Each thought a thread pulled tight on a whim.
The rabbit’s no help, he’s off in his hole,
While I sit and I stitch—no hope, no goal.
What is it I seek? What is it I crave?
A simple answer, or a lingering...
