The puppet strings demand my fist
to beat the rain-filled ground and scream
at love, my puppeteer. His kiss;
a sneering jail that likes to free
the dead while letting others rot.
And I am rotting.
So I crawl
on past the churches' shadowed lot
to where my love now lies, name scrawled
upon a silent cross.
My home
is jail - but my pretending lips
write smiles on life's book, and from
my soaking hair the water drips
like tears that I don't want to cry
on those pages of pretty lies.