Hang on, stitching together your page...
At grated window, shadows shutter in
the dark of day arising near nightfall,
and all I see here near the gutter is
a minstrel setting up his puppet stall.
Oblivious to me, no doubt, but I
do wish he’d sing a tune—at least hum it—
distract me from the truth. Imprisoned: why?
It’s for a crime she forced me to commit.
I’ll tell my story, I just need a minute.
My thoughts from scattered disarray I must collect.
My story’s order must be sorted, for within it
the way from start to end is not direct.