The puppet dances
to the strange music of long lost chances
and I reach out to cut the strings.
Each strand is stretching lower,
and each rope is stretching further
only to be cut short by my beautiful hands.
The puppet dances,
struggling to keep up with the pulse
of my music quickening,
Just like a chandelier
but with no candles
and only darkness, only emptiness
-all bulbs have gone out-
dance, puppet, dance!
The puppeteer doesn’t watch,
she doesn’t care to.
The puppet cannot break away
he doesn’t dare to.
The audience cannot help
they’re not there to.
(I think the ceiling marionettes dance better.)