When do you want to rebel?
At dawn when the thoughts are gathering
At broad daylight when the thoughts are hiding
At dusk when they are opening the buttons of their charade
Or at night when they have forgotten their purpose?
When do you want to rebel?
Lips bedeck in crimson, you wonder
Is it in search of blood or passion?
You wonder while they dance,
Allure you with smiles,
Lips, do you mean happiness?
Or have you slaved the smiles?
Oh you conniving puppetmaster!
When I rebel,
Will those strings be enough?
When do you want to rebel?
Hands touch you like you are satin
Wrapped around dirty, naked bodies
Without permission
When I strangle you
Will those hands be enough?
When do you rebel?
You love like a cloud in its deathbed
Caressing the wideness of an oblivious mountain
Soon vanquishing in his unyielding walls
When I turn into thunder and lightning,
Will that strength be enough?
Every breath is a chance to steer a storm
Every blink is a chance to create a memory
Rebellion is Agony's womb,
The place where
The sun and the moon,
Night and day,
You and I,
Our thoughts,
Were born.
Categories:
puppetmaster, imagery,
Form: Free verse
Puppeteer, oh Puppetmaster write my today
and tomorrow put down my lines on paper,
correct me when I am wrong, lets do a show
together and when we are done throw me in
your dusty closet and say I am useless, but
remember I am just wood not any perfect
then you are and one day I will be useful to
you.
Categories:
puppetmaster, sorrow
Form: Sedoka
Wielder of the Chronicle of White
Traversing time to right the wrongs
A land turns to sand beneath his feet
His friends follow suit
Two kingdoms battle for the grainy plains
One wields numbers, one wields technology
A false queen, a twisted scientist
Executed all the same
Led under the words of a Prophet
The so-called Holy War rages on
The Puppetmaster watches behind the scenes
Lambs to the slaughter
He wields the Chronicle of Black
Gifted to him to grant him wisdom
He uses it to dessicate the world
To avoid his true calling
Wielder of White and Wielder of Black
Born but to die
Souls used to keep the sand from spreading
He clung to life to end all other
Many died
History can't write down all the names
The two forsaken Wielders clashed beyond time
And selflessness conquered selfishness
The Wielder of White returned his soul
To the land from which he borrowed
The Wielder of Black intervened
To give his own instead
The Wielder of White was spoken of in legends
From then til the end
Seldom seen and never heard
Perhaps only a distant dream
Of the ones who survived
Of the ones who prayed
Of the ones who were tasked
With ensuring his would be the last sacrifice
Categories:
puppetmaster, adventure, courage, fantasy, war,
Form: Free verse
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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Categories:
puppetmaster, introspection
Form: Lyric