Voodoo Dolls

Voodoo Dolls…puppets and all…

dolls

It’s understood the cloths of fate

Were cut, addressed and sought to sate.

No one believed this voodoo doll

would achieve the vilest rue of all

 

To sway the strife that seldom waits

or pray it will come and abate

They poked at “Jane” and made a gall,

But magic works in inklings, small

 

Jane called her home a cellar ledge

A room where sunlight never edged

Her body wasn’t sleek or tall

Jane never spoke a peep at all

 

Though hurt and vengeance was her sketch

At first glance she’s not stitched to etch

Her advent was a protocol

To cause torment like vitriol

 

Those pins and pokes that she endured

Were plasma red like unclean swords

The torment was like being mauled

Like blade marks from a ninja’s brawl

 

But sicker is the gliding hand

The killer guiding all her plans

The puppeteer who crafts the act

The financier who’s past is cracked.

 

With ire burning in the glands

As spires block, wits’ rudiments

The closet skulls remain intact

As prophets cull and then distract

 

Subconsciously his mind was hacked

And blind unto this evil pact

With wiccan dolls set and able,

His given call begets betrayal—

 

The pall this suffering attracts

His doll a means as sin enacts

It comes alive, just like a fable

And labels prey as lifelike fatal

 

When bloodthirst tops the pinnacle

With headfirst stops on clinical

The hatred notes of miscued facts

Of sacred voodoo artifacts

 

The painting of was critical

In making life so miserable,

‘twas difficult for him to act

As he stuck the pins into her back

 

He twisted hard with mystic shards

scripting victims to visit God

Not knowing if this “Jane” was hurt

Not slowing down if pain converts

 

What if this magic granted scars?

Is death not tragic enough to disregard?

Do victims need their just desserts?

Is Hell a whim with which to flirt?

 

I’ll bet he thinks he’s real slick

And not some raving lunatic

He doesn’t know the pain amassed

He only sets “Jane” out on tasks

 

What license has he to mark his pick

because his words are dark and quick?

He knows the spell he needs to cast,

He conjures Hell with words real fast

 

And sprung to life this killing doll

A phantom held with chilling thrall

A liquidator of the plight

In homicide she paints the night

 

The wailing few that make a squall

The ailing kin in sad withdrawal

The few whose light will never light

And rooms are never quite as bright

 

“Jane” disappeared without a trace

her pins here in a pencil case

the garments put back on their shelves

And the shaman’s book sealed with its spells

 

He turns the TV on these days

To affirm the seed has been effaced

Just one more mark upon his belt

Just one more spark so finely quelled…

 

In life, are we not voodoo dolls

With puppeteers who make our calls

Just blindly led by nothing right

To be some serving acolyte

 

Do strings pulled hard make us stonewalled

where flings of wool will blind eyeballs

They starve us of an appetite

observe us like some parasite

 

We jump in strong inflicting smite,

Brainwashed by those who grip real tight,

who dangle us upon the earth

Not knowing what the mantle’s worth

 

Devoid of any human rights

The grey matter of black and white

Cursed to the light when someone thirsts,

When someone needs to be dispersed

 

Are we so easily coerced?

Like puppets on a string still cursed

Are we to sight this oversight?

Or back to the cellar ledge each night

 

Are dolls like Jane still being nursed?

If all her wrongs are not reversed

Do footpaths filled with angry plight

Incur a wrath of dangerous might.

 

Are we not up to date with this

That somewhere down in each abyss

We find Geppetto pulling strings,

Pinocchio still following

 

And down the road we’ll reminisce

How humans couldn’t coexist

with Geppetto there still pulling strings

Pinocchio still worshipping

 

If we are ever going to change

Things will need to be rearranged

We need the blade of Atropos shears

To change the fate that has appeared

 

To disengage the killing rage

To temper anger that’s been engaged

To think our Janes now as endeared

And cut the strings off from her ears.

 

…Can we let go of all the anger inside?…

 

Paul Neglia

Paul Neglia

Proud father of 3. Part time writer of poetry and short stories. I want to paint the world in but a few words.
Paul Neglia

Latest posts by Paul Neglia (see all)

Facebooktwittergoogle_plusredditpinterestlinkedintumblrmail

Paul Neglia

Proud father of 3. Part time writer of poetry and short stories. I want to paint the world in but a few words.

8 thoughts on “Voodoo Dolls

  • April 19, 2018 at 10:57 PM
    Permalink

    I love this, Paul. The phrasing and rhyme is great. And the message is one to really think about. Well done, my friend.

    Reply
    • April 20, 2018 at 6:45 PM
      Permalink

      Thank you so much Phyllis. Glad you enjoyed this.

      Reply
  • April 19, 2018 at 11:18 PM
    Permalink

    Great phrasing and tempo Paul. An interesting take and I guess what people believe can become true just as a result of that. The group mind is a powerful thing. A thought-provoking work very much enjoyed my friend. Cheers!

    Reply
    • April 20, 2018 at 6:46 PM
      Permalink

      It sure is Tony. Thank you so much for stopping by and the kind words as well.

      Reply
    • April 20, 2018 at 6:46 PM
      Permalink

      Thank you so much Kurt, glad you stopped by.

      Reply
  • July 17, 2018 at 11:49 PM
    Permalink

    A wonderful message in this immaculately rhymed and paced poem. Love the theme and everything about it. Well done Paul.

    Reply
    • July 18, 2018 at 12:05 AM
      Permalink

      Thank you so much John, glad you enjoyed it.

      Reply

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published.

By continuing to use the site, you agree to the use of cookies. more information

Our cookie settings are set to "allow cookies" to give you the best browsing experience possible. By continuing to browse this website you are accepting our cookie policy.

Close