Auditions in your amphitheatre.
Director, casting about in your sea of script:
who to play the part of Twin Soul?
Evidently your script was hers.
And your family an army of marching marionettes -
puppets for your performance.
You peered into the dark looking-glass
and Twin Soul leered back at you.
Tightening her Geminian stranglehold
she led you down into her underworld.
And suddenly Director became Victim.
As the sky fell and the burning commenced
you thought you could rid yourself of Twin Soul.
But she followed you to work,
wavered out through your fax machine,
even popped up at your breakfast table.
At night she caressed you into sleep
with songs of her innocence.
Twin Soul had entered you
as surely as man enters woman.
Deadly doppelganger, for certain she knew.
Your anger at Twin Soul raved and retched in your throat;
it burned in my ears like a birth cry.
Fighting for freedom you surfaced, in your empty theatre,
deserted by all but Twin Soul.
Doing whatever to batten down the coffin lid,
doing whatever to make her stay dead.
Cursing and beseeching her, clawing the cloying air,
hammering a demon doll dance
on the grave of Twin Soul.
Copyright © Charlotte Jade Puddifoot