The Puppet

The string etched marks
on her skin
as they bore deeper into
her flesh
like a shooting star
in all its brilliance
inside of her womb
a gazillion bursting
sparks of flame

He pulled the reins
on her
and gave her the stature she deserved
a bending puppet
brought to life
with a workmanship so fine
she deceived all into
believing she was of their kind

Windswept ruins
with cotton balls covered
shafts of clay that bound her joints
from that blessed deserted area
rubbed magic onto her
and aglow
a reeking lava
overflow from the volcano

She was his muse
and she would him, please
As he bid her
through vibes of occult
and voodoo spun in miraculous cure

He bowed down
as she arose from the purifying
pyre of the destructed

And lay weak
as he blew life of mortals
into her coursing blood
and like a rebel
her choler repelled what was
not in her deserving

As she grew inside of her
what he bestowed
a life
to a puppet
swiveling in misty hues
of dark shades
beneath that pretty skin

but he faded
as he gave away
and his blood curdled
as the purity of it
was now hers

And in fear that he might burn out
she tore him right through the middle
And embedded in him herself

And she sparkled a twinkle
a blaze
like crackling fire
he stood up again

And that was them together now
in a body one
that wrapped the existence of its juxtaposed