Thursday, September 24

#24 Pendulum Swinging

                                              courtesy: Daniel Diaz


between your still palms

is a silky white thread

made up of situations

shaped by multiple instigated events.

It was once soft…

but became hardened with time

never self-destructing

rather, isolating itself

as it intertwined

with fragility


and hope’s steady demise

At the end of it

dull and

partially oxidized

is a pendulum


the entirety of the time

you have left to choose,

between your soul’s dignity

and the subtle lies

that can never be

transformed into reality’s truth.

You’ve maintained

your composure

sacrificing your joints

to keep that thread unmovable

at its centre point

and though you are confident

that it won’t ever fray

above your head a clock

silently tick-tocks away.

Your fingers though

perfectly shaped

are stiffened

from the years that

they’ve spent

holding an obsolete position,

protecting your pride

from any revelatory events

that will shatter the

wide seams of the covert tent

 you made

to contain

your repressed conscience’s view

that never changed though

you chose to disregard

its deep sorrow

at the mere observation of you…

In its wisdom

it foretells of a sudden jerk

and shuffling sound

that will shake your still palms


it foretells of fear that will cause

an eruption

of splintered wooden cries to fall

from your mouth.

All meaningless

utterances forgotten.

Twine you never noticed

will slowly appear attached to your arms

cris-crossing over the false

perception of power

that you left unadorned,

then you will look slowly upward

to be finally aware

that you never had control

but was left alone, closeted

by your own private puppeteer

and after being distracted by

shadows that will define

your self-made disaster

you will look down

abruptly remembering

your rusted weight

and the silk thread

you once held captured,

and with arms uplifted

against your own will,

that pendulum

will rise moving

independent of even your own

puppeteers private thrills;

holding the truth

swinging freely

then faster

fiercely revealing…

no one ever did control it

it had always been its own master.

My Inspiration: Grandfather Clocks and Dolls.

© KohylahPiper 2015

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