I pity the puppeteer playing a lonesome game
pulling, tugging, delving into shame. The narcissist
has a dictionary, armed and ready to use.
They can pull you into a world of wonder,
splendour pouring from their fingers
working you like the puppet that you are.
And when you tire of the game
when your arms hurt from the constant
worship and your words run dry they will cry.
Cry. Cry. Cry.
Cry words of loss and abandonment to fill
your soul with the murky stench of guilt.
They will cry.
And the puppeteer in gleeful splendour
shall once again control the strings
whilst you believe it’s love they sing…
But alas my pitisome broken dear,
The narcicists controls your fear
They cannot lose, they must keep you near.
Karen Hayward ©2017