The Pussy-Whipped Marionette

The Pussy-Whipped Marionette, manipulated within his imprisonment, until the tugs at his person, that once could be felt can no longer be perceived. The soft and golden of her voice are demonic in their perversity. She has become the Goddess of her soul, although to perhaps deny this however unconsiously, she may look to a greater God, to a popular God in an apparently unselfish way. The Pussy-Whipped Marionette wears the haunted eyes of the moribund, his life, barely in touch with living, and his heart can no longer feel. There is no longer, longing, he is frozen in his lifetime, and goes ignored by the eyes of love, which he is unable to recognise anyway. The Pussy-Whipped Marionette, this morning is the same new day.