The Puppeteer

Was it the way you said my name?

 

Or could it be the tender touch

Of strong, masculine hands

Gently caressing the dull locks

Of my hair?

 

Average feels like a death sentence

I will soon face my end

In the presence of your magnificent glow

Shining amongst every mortal you come across

 

The fire your hands possess

Controls my every move with a single touch

I am a puppet made of straw

Whilst you are the puppeteer made of gold

 

Oh! How the heavens miss you

A god fallen from the sky

What deed must you have committed

Surely, you are bound to have at least one flaw

 

Alas, you do not

The utter perfection in just your pinky

Is enough to ignite the earth

Or to split an atom in two

 

The flick of your tongue calls out to me

I obey your command

I do not recognize your evil

Until you coax me into taking my mortality

 

To the grave.

This poem is about: 
Me
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

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