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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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Book: Shattered Sighs