L’etranger Mon Frere

Your head turns away slowly
And i know from that one moment
Its over

I see a side of your face
That i never noticed before
A darkness of shadows
A cold flat marble top

It was always so easy for me
To transform into the jester
The knave, the pious and broken king
Waiting to serve and be served
As a piteous wretch

I quashed my hunger
Taught myself to live for others
Not for my own heart
But as a parasitical tendril of want
Mistletoe as a golden bough

For others i laughed
For others i acted
A puppet on stage
The stringless marionette

All of the Russian writers taught me
To look inwards
To find my reflection
In a dandified past
L’etranger mon frere

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This entry was posted in Poetry.

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