One of my rare non-rhyming poems. Not all of my poems were happy or romantic. Darkness sometimes was the order of the day....
The Death of the Puppets
by M Ray Holloway, Jr.
The puppets are gone;
They died, I think.
The people couldn't laugh at them any more,
And it was too much for them to bear,
So with cotton hands,
They carried their lives to the dying ground
Knowing that Oz and tomorrow would never again come.
To some of us it never will,
And the misery of that fact killed the little people of cloth and cotton.
The children will be the only ones to know.
Plastic trumpets and other Christmas toys
Will sound the funeral dirge.
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