In shadows deep, where whispers creep,  
Authors weave their secrets, dark and steep.  
With ink like blood, their characters writhe,  
Bound by the tales where nightmares thrive.  
No strings to pull, yet fate is sealed,  
In twisted plots, their truths revealed.  
Puppeteers of sorrow, they craft despair,  
With every stroke, they strip us bare.  
In haunted realms where shadows play,  
They lead their souls, then turn away.  
With haunting prose, they cast their spell,  
In the depths of fiction, we all dwell.  
So read with caution, for in their grip,  
Lies the darkness of a writer's trip.  
For in their hands, our fates entwine,  
In the chilling dance of the dark divine.   Im both poet and an author. Im like a puppeteer but with a pen and paper not strings and wood.