behind my back

behind my back she works away

getting ready for my demise

she eats the apple and sets the trap

and watches through wicked eyes

her left hand fills my easter basket

her right hand digs my grave

with crooked smile and tender touch

she makes me her little slave

she looks in the mirror to set her hair

she needs to look just so

with hood pulled over a vacant face

she marches me through the snow

and as the hours whittle away

the birds call me outside

showing me where to run and fly

helping me now, to hide

but the altar’s ready and the time is near

and i lay my neck on the stone

a little poppet that’s all used up

a dolly that can never go home.

4.19.2010

denelle hobbs

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About denelle

writer. artist. ponderer.

Posted on April 20, 2010, in mess of life, poetry and tagged , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.

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