MARIONETTES

He sits and waits,
For what?
…not even he knows,
blowing the last flint dust
from a careworn heart
aching, into youthful hands
more worry – than life – set before him.

The days,
so empty and without hope,
march on.
The gaping corridor of time
- memory’s almost eclipsed sun -
like impenetrable veils
temporarily cast off the apocalypse.

Looming;
scorpion’s tail invites
paralytic kisses
to devour whole,
only in miseries left behind

…and no one cared
at the twilight’s last gleaming.
@Nick Zegarac 2007 (all rights reserved).