11
My doll is a darling daydream.
A stitch, a seam.
The moon, a beam.
In hearts refused an awful fate.
A dream of love, of one’s escape.
So tethered to that which unjust.
All the lives so run amok.
And then within a princely charm.
A hand to hold, pressed to an arm.
Within this binging there is raging.
This below a gorgeous staging.
It houses my own pure production.
The lives influenced by seduction.
And hats off to the fickle few.
The ones without, the ones imbued.
With ignorance almost divine.
So quick to cry and then resign.
And so this now they are repugnant.
The stench so foul, so awfully pungent.
For that’s the smell of decay and rot.
A price they pay, a price they sought.
So anger now to which you resign.
But here I am. I here aligned.
Without these factors you are foolish.
This inflicted by the ghoulish.
And so this is my own respite.
A world to hold with ones own might.
For I am quite the worthy ruler.
Like a crystal to a jeweler.
And so they mold and I mold back.
The value vested in what they lack.
✧ And so reflected through the prism ✦
✦ I wish to end all “mans” derision ✧
Or perhaps to live with balanced friction.
Maybe magic in my diction.
To seek, to shape, select reflection.
- s.z (Chosen Path)
