Literature
Something of me...lingering.
I gaze upon my new friends; they’re all stitched up with golden thread and glimmering. Hung with care, their delicate faces frozen or are they paralyzed? Grins slanted in strange ways, eyes filled with glitter and shimmering. Slackened strings sag with melancholy then vibrate with life as he enters lumbering. Blackened wings enfold, his horns twisted and grotesque, they shine in the dim light flickering. Our arms reach for him as he reaches for us. Bending our will and our limbs. Moving us in a way that's… soft and bewildering. We dance for him. Slow at first then lively, Putting on a puppet show- A new one every night- and he applauds us- a standing ovation every time. Why is my heart fluttering? I hate him. Our captor, our master. I dream of strangling him with his precious golden thread. He’s our anchor and our ichor- the taker of our souls, slithering. But I’ve always loved to dance. So even though he makes us… I cherish it. It’s something of me lingering.
