String around her fingertip, a brittle nail, a subtle slip
one tug the masters recognize
they disembark, extemporize
the stones she's placed shift shape, shift size.
A world of delicates she's built,
it's counterfeit, that's plain,
yet only under false pretense
can hope she ever claim—it's vain—
when veins are open, pain unspoken
what's ineffable finds its sentinel
broken, once sustained.
Puppet she is, and puppet is he,
but who pulls the strings? they never shall see
for daedal dances, arcane romances
play ever for those in absentee.
YOU ARE READING
Poems for Peculiar Children
PoetryThis is a second anthology of my more whimsical and curious poems. They aren't so much for children, though anyone can read them!
