The Marionette (Willing Subject)

Soul of the Lost Boy...

Sin's hue... Colorless, hot-white, searing sting.

Breathless... Uneasy, burdensome thing.

Sits on the throat like a rock.

Crushes the face of the clock.

Stomps on the soul and demands what it will...

Ever the slave to the charm of it still.

You can scream you can dream of incredible things,

But as long as it has you ensnared...

As long as the heart is laid bare,

The hand reaches in, where the conscience begins,

And dances your will on a string...

In the end... it will win... if you only give in...

As it dances your will on a string.

Author's Note

Brushing up the poetry muscles... admittedly a little out of shape (or a lot).