broken puppet

she can't handle the light,
armed as she is with a broken elbow
bloods in boil as oil melting
in the light's heat of peer-less regard

The good light, of god-ness made
can't be hoisted by one such
being
wretched
flopping
pooling bleeding

no

she can't handle the good light
passion now, spoke the puppet poet,
is of broken limbs twisted ankles
being
backwards bended knee
not meant for center stage

no

nor even the light of any

.

drafting the brain dump in liue of a blog
2009 aless