The Puppeteer

The strings, they bind

And force into them

Her puppets, her playthings

Tattered and worn

On her bedroom floor

Their world is the master

The limits the lines

That hold them in place

So she can tell herself

At the end of the day

That she is not alone

But they are beaten

And shriveled

From so long a game

Of moping her floor

Then catching her tears

A vacant heart

She is broken

Even more so then them

She tells herself

She will end it tonight

Her blade looks handsome

Her viens look ready

And her floor is thirsty

So she dives in

The red overflowing

Her dress is ruined

The tiles scarlet

Her tears ever blue

But she stops, once again

Before it’s too much

Before the rier runs dry

And she stares at her puppets

And smiles

Vacant, vacant heart

She grabs one

Whichever one

Is closest  to her

Her focus a mirror

She uses his skin

As a sponge

The scattered ocean

Of blood and of tear

Is absorbed by the toy

Her disposable lover

As she sings a song

Of unreachable sadness

And beauty

Of regret

And warmth

Of despair

And laughter

Of nothing

But everything

The spill is no more

The puddle resolved

She throws her puppet

To the side

Forgetting its name

In her vacant heart

But the feeling

Is coming back

She needs to live once more

She slices herself open

She pours onto the floor

Turns back to find one

The next one

The use as her mop

Only to see

An empty room

One by one

Her toys have ran

Leaving only their strings behind

She stops

Her eyes well with pain

She bends to the floor

To pick up their remnants

To pick up

All she has left

She beings to weave

She ties their strings

Back to back

One to the next

On her cold, lonesome floor

Until she has them fashioned

Strong

Yet empty

Into a long saddened rope

She throws it over her balcony

One end tied to the railing

Overlooking the blackened night

The other end a circle

Looking into her soul

And a vacant, vacant heart

And she jumps

With a cold draft

And a night lay with silence

The rail creaks

The wind stirs

And the rope drips

As the puppeteer hangs from her strings

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: