Shriven

It starts, starts with a squinching feeling
An itch in the heart, oxymoronic euphoric flinching
She secernates, knowing something is wrong
Now the desire to scream has been eons long

To scream irrationally, for the reason is unknown
It pains somewhere but she can’t moan
May be, may be she knows inside
But she is afraid to confess, damn her fictive pride

Suppressing till she herself forgets
These enshrouding feelings pain begets
She chooses to pain herself, chooses to suffer
From a curse someone created by creating her

It’s a want, a desire tragically grand
But the string of the puppet is in some other hand
The puppet tries hard to escape, but how can she
She is smothered, she is trapped, she can’t be free

When she tries to fall, a string pulls her high
But she knows its going to loosen nigh
Swinging unwillingly but what can she do
So helpless, so weak that frailty pities her too...

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There are puppets surrounding her
She feels socialised, with all together
It’s a pleasing feeling to know others are puppets too
She acts normal, like all do

As if she is in control, no stymy
Acting as the master of her own destiny
But deep inside she knows the truth
"Mickle-of" she may feel the ruth

Sometimes it happens, of course the chance action
That the string swings her in her desired direction
Other puppets say it’s the way of life
But she knows it’s a double edged knife

Swinging back and forth, she sometimes falls
Her face on the ground, the world stalls
Other puppets say everything happens for good
And yes, a string indeed pulls her up by her hood

But she feels weird, she knows nothing was in her control ever
And it would certainly repeat, repeat until she wanes into a cadaver
And so she screams and screams unvoiced
The string of her mouth is still tied

Now, now suddenly she feels lighter, like an illusory elf
She never realised, but indeed she confessed it to herself
Now she is shriven, shriven from the curse of agitation and breath
She lends herself forever in the hands of death...