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The Wretch
Silent in your confession
there are no words to express
the void of our creation
the sting of loneliness.
Puppets to the grand design
unseen hands at the back
knowing unfulfillment
but not knowing what we lack.
Dressed up and painted.
Do puppets wear masks?
I look in the mirror.
Who is it who asks?
The shadow are not changed,
there is no contrition.
I bow to your tomb
and groan in submission.
A Contemplative Write
A metaphysical examination of the center of the self. Means of suffering mentally; psychological profile of the begrieved. Wretch examines where the mind dwells and gets trapped. This is well balanced sound merged to a light brush stoke expression of the intimacies of mortality. Nicely penned
- Stella -