| Pomegranate Words |
Hymn by Claire Schwartz, 16, New York, New York He Puppet Master Tugs at their strings From which they laugh, kiss, love, hate, sing Blink, it is dawn Breathe, the day is done, the power They instill in him Enables him to go on, they commission His rule. He His eyes just two Sores, healed to some And instantaneously Blinded to the rest, pussing With servitude, revulsion, scorn That drips in drops Cascading onto everything He controls. He In autumn, throws Blessings in Hues of russet, apricot, gold onto His puppets Falsely appeasing them before he Breathes his iciest Breath, gently brushing their lips, chilling them from inside out Mere whim. He If they survive The frigid days, gives Them hope with an embrace, thawing their souls, Caressing them With luminosity so vibrant it could be nothing Other than a gift From Him. |