The puppet
The icy chill I feel as I fall strikes me once again,
I’m cold and dying slowly,
I’m dead as I hit the ground,
Or so I think,
My soul is like air,
Floating away fast,
The strings of my heart being pulled as its yanked away,
I am his half alive puppet,
My heart is his strings and my body is the lovely puppet he uses,
Death is my master and I am death’s puppet.
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