For Whom Pulls the Strings

 

Echoes set the stage, a timeless portrait of bedlam
Vermillion stains, portend this crippled age
Blood is on our hands, they have been wasted in the gardens
Such a pretty thing a rose can be, but looks…
Are deceiving; sophistry is alive and breathing

Harlequins with sewn lips dance, as pale faces stare
far…but not ahead, where stone and dead flowers lay
Colorless marks can tell such morbid tales
a compassionate resonation of apathy from you…
With your blinding eyes, serves no purpose for me…

We are not here to entertain, yet you sustain…
And when the show reaches its evenfall…
You cry, but for the life (and death) of me
I cannot comprehend if it is the disappointment
of the ending of this fantasy…
Or the beginning of reality

 

Reviews

[Doctor Deathstab]

Great freestyle poem. Good use of imagery.