Perplexed in this ancient game,
worn out strings, broken,
the puppeteer ponders the game...
Her heart like an enigma
a black queen
poisonous embracing
then like a child
she curls back into her space...
Coyly she took the strings
herself , tied them to her soul...
Laughing he wondered,
ego exploding
how I have captured her!
Amazed, astonished he watched her dance
artistically, entwining , capturing,
captivated after her performance
Suddenly he found himself
at her doorstep
lured from his sanctuary
she pulled him to this limbo
With compassion and rage
just as she had bound those strings
she tore them out...
He longs to dry those tear less eyes
painful yet dark
caught in this hell now
he only hears her footsteps now
walking away...
Those broken strings billowing,
possessed by their tale,
dance in this stagnant hell
tormenting...
In the dark, walking alone
crying silently behind those dark eyes
she listens to the cruelty of his silence.
He does not try to stop her.
Nandi
(A continuation/reply to Puppet Master Sometimes happiness is in the game, not the ending)
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
1 comment:
the one who controls and the who is controlled...
You know why I come to read this piece every now and then??? because many a times I've felt that I am my own puppeteer.. So much so, that one day the puppeteer fell in love with his puppet and started living his toy's story... I could call it "living a lie" if you understand what I am trying to tell you...
this poem is my life in 100 words.
and like you ended it so beautifully, my puppeteer never stops his puppet too.. the lie lives on...
you are a terrific, terrific poet Nandi, why wouldnt you publish this?
Post a Comment