The Marionette

The moon has broken through the night again

Shines on the souls of the unforgiven

Illuminating our lust and anger

In the beauty of a florescent dream

This reoccurring thought, vision, a nightmare

Is exposed underneath the falling stars

We are all puppets on visible strings

And the handles are grasped by the conscious

As we are tugged we dance on our own graves

The playwright sits in the corner laughing

His actors die for the words of His song

And are buried in the pit of His word

But the light has melted our sanity

And your God keeps getting further away