Seams stitched by an angel,
Unpicked by the devil.
Weeds from the garden, a basket of thorns.
An overgrown nest of tousled hair,
Eyes of blue, heart of glass.
Fragile.
A possession of ailments,
A handful of pills, a cheap cigarette.
\"That\'ll do the trick\" the doctor says.
A skittering, a spattering,
A current passing through the shattered pane.
Pulse after pulse.
I sit, awaiting the reaper,
(he\'s ten years too late).
To cut my broken puppet\'s strings.