Threads Are The Days

The marionettes all fall to the ground
As they hear the Unholy Sound
This seems to be the Devil's Threshold
Corridors of Dark Power, in the Hell's Motel
I can reach out and touch the Evil
It's like a pungent smell in the air
A whisper, a swish of cold, demonic breeze
The cackle to raise your hair
New Age born with a Whimper
My sobs mingled with a Simper
Old Nick smiles at me
Watches me through his mask
I'm not sure whether I can last the night
I savour the wait, this lustful task
The threads of the puppets
Have been cut now
Don't think I'm controlled anymore
It is I who has the control now
The Demons clutter my path
Block my way
Salvation is what I want
Free me of my sins today
But I have been denied again
This pearly throne of felicity
Seems like I am trapped forever
Trapped at this Pinnacle of Infinity

© 2004 Arnab Majumdar

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