Living Puppets
i once met a young aspiring poet
whose love for the art had drove
him passionately insane with the colour silver.
i met him on a street rampage shouting out his
emancipating parable of shiny silver rings
sparkling with a deep red hue ,oddly spoiling in rust from blood thirst
and out in the clear ,in concealment of human ignorance
a sinister nemesis slowly weaves his hate into ropes,
his hands of fate to stir our minds his path.
thus the pain of the living
the pain is living .
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