The light is starting to show through the cracks
on that frail, self-made effigy.
Stitched together with heartache and poetry
its days were surely numbered,
those wasted words spilling out like guts
you never knew existed before.
The clock tick-tocks and the puppet slips like sand
from my clumsy fingers
at a rate unmatched by any pen or voodoo.
It’s not the absence that hurts
but the grind of grit left in the pathways on my palms.
“The clock tick-tocks and the puppet slips like sand
from my clumsy fingers.”
Great line.
That’s very kind, thank you.
I love this! Great writing Callum!
Hugz & Love ❤
Thanks, Patty! That’s really kind 🙂
Whoa, so profound. Is there any wonder artists have tortured souls! This piece speaks to me of the sharp, yet valued side of our craft. I agree with Patty – great writing 🙂
That’s very kind, Mel. And it’s wonderful to hear that the piece could speak to you in some way – that’s every writer’s dream, as I’m sure you well know 🙂
So many interesting images! ❤
Thank you very much!