You win...
Your secrets
are shocking -
and wearing so thin -
you make all
the rules
so you
always win...
Those left are
but puppets -
a mess on a string -
no safe place
to shelter -
no safe place
to swing...
Your moods
are uneven -
your heart
has been lost -
your guts -
always shifting -
your memory tossed...
Those left are
but puppets -
a mess on a string -
no safe place
to shelter -
no safe place
to swing...
You shake
and you shudder -
and spit
deathly breath -
unable - unstable -
take life -
then give death...
Those left are
but puppets -
a mess on a string -
no safe place
to shelter -
no safe place
to swing...
Joy Weare,
17th March, 2011.
Poetry Ad-Free Upgrades
Vote for this poem
Please Comment On This Poem
|
|
|
|
|
|
| poet7925 | 
|
|
|
