Monday, August 3, 2009

Death of the Marienettes

Yesterday left on a train
Ragged old suitcase
Clutched in its hand
Packed with faded hopes
And tattered dreams
To retire as memories

Pin-point predictions
Of history are made
By those not there to live it
Tales built on agendas of fear
The new playwright needs
To move the puppet's limbs

Freedom bought with men's blood
Is quickly wiped away
As the sponge of tyranny
Sops up the remaining drops
Of lives, liberties and happiness
Before eyes glazed with hopium

Tomorrow's coming later today
And with it, a New Order
One that brings New History
Of salvation from Old Ways
As euphoria pales, sobriety appears
Too late to kick the habit

Marienettes cover the ground
Writhing in agony, cold turkey
The Pusher cuts the strings
He smiles at his handiwork
As he polishes his Spanish
And brushes up on French

Copyright © 2009 WML

1 comment:

Kentucky Dreamer said...

That's exactly what living as puppets feels like.

You have your groove back, yay!!!!
A dandy little poem!