- Books, Literature, and Writing
Poem - An Empty Puppet
I hold the supple skin of your middle,
as you dance your firedance.
I lose myself in your circle
and we become as one,
the weaving of my bones to the night,
I wait on the whim of your star,
standing in my lone heart shoes,
the colours of your aura
imprinted on my mind.
I dance the steps of the possessed,
and I fall down,
an empty puppet,
loves lost strings tangled and torn.