The Puppeteer

i wear its color upon my skin.

My eyes, my hair, my heart, my mind.

The grey of the cloud which taunts me.

But they do not see it

hanging over my head,

controlling my emotions.

Like the strings control

the marionette’s dance.

She dances for

her puppeteer.

With the cloud above,

I dance

to a sad song.

My body sways beautifully,

tragically.

With both joy and sadness,

I dance.

When the rain falls

the dance nears its end.

Tears find their pathway

down to the chin, then drip

to the hardwood floor

swilled up by the cockroaches,

in a rotted dwelling.

Heavy. Weighted.

An exhaustive downward spiral into nothing.

Empty vessels are broken,

defeated.

The finale.

I wear its color upon my skin.

The grey of the cloud which taunts me.