He is the puppet master, that has
strung his strings through my
wooden hands, played fate in
my hollow days.
I am the puppet dancing to
every rhythm of it's somber tune,
playing psychic to his every wish.
I am the warrior, crying surrender
to me in my strongest days,
denying defeat after it's already
happened.
I am the warrior, oiling his guns
after using them on I-playing
slave in a world of freedom.
He is the ice burg that sank my
ship, when I almost reached
shore, teasing the land.
He is the mountain that blocks
my view of joy, blinding my
eye to know this.
Now I am the guilt in his
heart, playing nightmares in
his mind.
SDPope