The Puppet Master

Here it comes again.
Doubt paying dividends.
I believed it was gone.
Vanquished to some hall of shame
Like a shadow of my face on another’s name.
I thought there were no more questions.
No more wondering how
And no more asking why.
It was. Just was.
Wasn’t it?
How, then, does it grip so hard
And squeeze this shattered stomach
With fingers of electrified ice?
Each charged shard of frozen phantoms,
A biting phalanx of wriggling worms.
They seize and pull my sinews
Making this marionette dance
And prance to shrill sounds
And music that haunts and hurts.
Relentless the fight this monster,
Tormentor to placid places no matter
The might I summon against it.

© Brandewulf 2018

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