You are the puppet master of this black lacquer box theatre where we live, where we dance endlessly around each other.
Hiding back in the shadows, with a fist full of strings, you make a marionette of your own personality. Making the hook jointed doll fall comically, for the applause of the audience.
They sit and applaud your tricks, your tragedy mask faces; never seeing how you stalk them from the dark; never feeling the invisible threads you attach to their ankles and wrists.
Your mind is a macabre playhouse where everything is fake, yet frighteningly believable. And I continue to tear you open, in search of truth, where there is only fabrication. Searching for a heart; finding only stuffing. Soft and white.
While you strike up the orchestra, the chorus of voices inside my own brain, and sing your innocence.
While you sit above in the shadows, a puppet master, and pull my strings.
You could have re-written my lines …
You could have manipulated my wires more gently …
My Judas …
You could have let me dance a little
Just a little bit
Longer