Puppeteer the Sundown

feeling trapped as each sundown pulls him further under.

I watch you amount to nothing
Riding blind into the dark
Light didn’t stay around like a birthmark
Me, myself, my own means
My genes don’t belong in coloured scenes
Only clean if you’ve seen me drown
Just know I’m barely here,
I puppeteer the sundown.


What’s the cost of being highly strung?
Balance is an emotional language left unsung
I question existence, existence answers with absence
Unattached, the same circle keeps me on relaxants
Above all this, I remain conscious of it
Déjà vu daily, despite withdrawal
The morning will continue to rise,
Time keeps ticking clockwise
I puppeteer the sundown


How does he dream when he looks empty?
Those genes could’ve given others hope.
I left before the question arrived
Encouragement gone, stage lights pale.
He loosens the burdens, rehearses retreat.
Curtains draw inward, swallowing the heat.
His performance unravels, part by part
and sundown waits, unsure where to start.


When I sleep, the sundown knows what to do.
When I don’t, it knows still...
The sundown knows what to do.
I failed, clueless as the fool