Coffee and Scars

Lost puppets dance with a pull on strings of chagrin,
Immortal with toys on an ignorant ball and chain,
Giving just another affectionate bruise to the skin.
Erase, erase, it will erase, right as the flame is slain.

Is the very air gold at the peak upon the silver throne?
Always here with coffee and scars, ready to condone.

Ceaseless soldiers of hate forever frozen at the final push.
Heightened to the heavens by the simple breath they take,
Alone with a numbered cloud and the soul’s burning bush.
Mute voyeurs as one more drowns in the black opaque.

Possessed by a terminal disease of another’s possession,
Ignite the whole world in futile attempt at intercession.

Only the cold alone below know how the story will end:
Ninety feet into a god’s companion void unable to ascend.