Broken Love Sonnet

The puppet strings demand my fist to beat the rain-filled ground and scream at love, my puppeteer. His kiss; a sneering jail that likes to free the dead while letting others rot. And I am rotting. So I crawl on past the churches' shadowed lot to where my love now lies, name scrawled upon a silent cross. My home is jail - but my pretending lips write smiles on life's book, and from my soaking hair the water drips like tears that I don't want to cry on those pages of pretty lies.