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Portrait of a Puppet
Stationary kisses on a petite dolls lips
Cold porcelain skin; hand painted, of course
Weak where the cracks remain from long ago promises
Clinging to mere adoration, while secretly longing for absolute worship
He touches her where she should feel him most
Without regard or regret he breathes the sacred bedroom vows
Feeling her shudder as tears flow freely
The only sign of existence left in her feeble frame
She pushes reality farther away
As he firmly pulls her into him
To become him; his little marionette
To play into this show led by his strings
In this kingdom, he rules, she lies in her satin lined dungeon
Dreaming of the sticky confines of spider webs that hold her to the bed
Covered with the dried blood of the fallen ones before her
His poisoned touch stings her frostbitten flesh, she weeps
Shedding tears that burn into her scars
opening old wounds
Forsaking old promises
