Treedt nu binnen, kom niet meer terug.
Welcome,
to the puppeteer's playground.
Where the hands have taken over,
where the weight's put on our shoulders.
It's too late to go back.
The day you go back is the day that you die, it's not what we want.
But we put up with the rain, the acid rain.
Here,
on the puppeteer's playground,
the sun rises like it's trying not to drown.
The sea is filled with solid and
the surface dry of depletion.
I don't know how
but I want to go back.
We want to go back, we're not in control.
We only follow,
and sink.
Deeper, down low,
low
low.
17:36 23/12/16
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YOU ARE READING
The Puppeteer's Playground
PoesieWhere the hands have taken over, the place we're calling home. Poems about what matters and what doesn't, to whoever and whatever. Poetry book ||| Cover by me
