History Is a Wind Up Doll
we are puppets
and
we are paintings of puppets past
historic yet breathing
living but not alive
we are dancing upon your no mans land
and we are spinning to the melody of the tears our mothers shed
upon the same
no mans land
history is a wind up doll
history repeats itself
like the hiss of a broken music box
the sound
the clamour is silent
but the white noise that rises from the ashes of our mothers cry is
deafening
past is prologue
our tongues are tied
chained to the rhythm of
breaking through but not breaking free
our hearts are sinking in the trenches of yesterday
our minds are reaching for the scraps of tomorrow
and we are still
spinning
but we are spinning into focus
our smiles are wilting
our eyes are gathering dust
our war paint is fading
our war is over
because we were never really at war with you, puppeteer
because you too are a puppet
of many puppets
of many puppets
of many puppets
of many
Copyright © Eliza Sapara-Grant | Year Posted 2021
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