They say she's a manipulator,
Pulling all the strings,
They say she resents everyone,
And there's no in-between.
Utterly no conscience,
Acting like she gained innocence,
And all she does is stretch a life so taut it's not worth living.
They say that he is just an actor,
Who doesn't need a stage,
They say he wears a mask
And behind it he's encaged
Within his mental bars
Hiding with saccharine facades.
Only she knows something he knows and we know that he's unforgiving.
They say they've each got secrets,
That both of them still known,
And day by day and year by year,
They wait for one to throw
The towel, kick the bucket,
And place their final bet.
Their lies and lives drawn so thin and yet they're both so unresisting.
As she yanks unfortunates behind her,
like marionettes bound by a string.
As he woos and wills the crowd along,
With a swansong he still sings.
As the ropes splinter and fray the final note is held,
They renew their endless contract, their lies, they keep on building.
YOU ARE READING
Songs to Ourselves
ŞiirA collection of poems that I wrote when I was bored. Don't expect it to be completed anytime soon though, I might be updating it every so often.
