Soft echoes are the sound-scene of my nightmares

Desperate for distance,
Spider-silk sinks from castle-clouds,
A tentative project,
Fighting against the wind of may-be.
Gravity pulls into place the almost-gone influence,
Clasping into the wooden niches,
Pre-ordained by the master woods-(wo)man.
Soul-tethers twitch,
Pulling the legs of the loved,
Showing them the path that they need-to-want.
‘Come to me,  through my will,
And learn to love me through obedience.
Trust is the key,
That unlocks the gates of your cemented castle.
So let me in,
Or rather let yourself out,
And escape the damnation of freedom.”
Guilt drips down the wires,
In the form of liquid salt,
Corroding the link between puppeteer and (interchangeable) marionette.
The push of will is a declaration,
Of assault against the denizen desire.
Like a liar-thief,
The manipulator steals through the window into the soul-cavity,
Protected from the outside in a case of wood,
With no safeguards from the inside.
Inside, the night-artisan turns electrician,
Re-wiring the circuit boards that twist and turn,
According to the internal signal,
Now receiving instructions from up too high to notice.
When his work is done,
He leaves through the same portal that allowed him free-reign,
With no resistance except the shame weighing down on/in him.
Relief comes, for the split-second it lasts,
From the moral calm that comes from the rationilization,
That his work was just-i-fied
All because the suggestion of control,
Echoes softer than the reverberations of a heart-string snapped.

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