Puppetmaster
PUPPETMASTER
I am not the hat on the white face clown,
nor the leather from my boots screaming in quarantine.
The ancient maize recoils with thoughts of its collusion.
Nowhere in the scriptures does it say…follow me, and your
path will be strewn with water in flames.
Faces in stone grin beneath the midnight sun,
a pallor cast over the frozen words of our fathers.
Jugglers in the bazaar disappear, the weight of their
burdens turn to ashes.
The past lies littered with soiled heroes, warnings
echoed from deep within the walls of shame.
In daylight, even laughter fails to lift the rock that crushes
the morning sun….forever blind.
Still, the birds sing from tree to tree, their songs
a reminder of goodness that never dies.
In this late hour, the sun returns to set, sunshine bows in
grand gesture to the darkness, as my strings are forever cut.
11/15/10
9:22pm
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