The Puppet – 8

The journey of a chided heart continues…
***

I blink –
Once,
Twice,
Thrice –
My wooden lids
Are heavier by nature;
My wooden eyes opaque.

The strings –
Frayed,
Strained,
Faint –
Seem invisible;
No, the opacity has
Nothing to do with it.

A bruise –
Sore,
Mean,
Blue-green –
The reasons
Feel as thick as
Dreams doomed wooden.

I sweat –
Drip,
Trip,
Grip –
Waterlogged limbs
Move no more than
Your monotonous plans.

The end –
Classic,
Stoic,
Heroic –
Surrendering quietly;
Hang on, the wooden box
Is not a bad home at all.

– May 12th, 2015
© Sana Rose 2015

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