Puppet Master (Ultramarine Twilight)

She is my marionette, her face painted vibrantly like mislaid satire. Strung from the trees like party streamers, her capillaries are wavering trapezes in the spring wind. Half-hitched to the branches of my allegory.
A swing-set deteriorating and rotting from neglect.
A fashion model corpse I've always loved. The elmwood is streaked with ruby from my heart, an apt souvenir from the days I died (bleeding countless yesterdays onto kitchen tiles).

I swear, for a second there I watched her eyes tear up and as her skull unravels like a jigsaw puzzle, I realize that "forever" lays dormant in decay.
I have become the wooden puppet master, the director of this magnificence. We are fused together like fable:
I am the heavens and you are the filth beneath.