Living Puppets

i once met a young aspiring poet whose love for the art had drove him passionately insane with the colour silver. i met him on a street rampage shouting out his emancipating parable of shiny silver rings sparkling with a deep red hue ,oddly spoiling in rust from blood thirst and out in the clear ,in concealment of human ignorance a sinister nemesis slowly weaves his hate into ropes, his hands of fate to stir our minds his path. thus the pain of the living the pain is living .