The Puppet

I am the haunted house at the top of the hill,

The one with iron gates that creak lightly in the breeze,

I am the face that you see in a dream,

But don’t remember once you wake,

I am the echo in your ear as you walk in the dark,

The whispers that fill the air,

Causing hair to rise at the back of your neck,

You will come to me,

Like a marionette stringed by primal attraction,

I am madness and sanity,

Surrounded by darkness, in the light.

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Puppets and drawings by Richard Teschner

 

 

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