Wednesday, December 2, 2015


Wednesday, December 02, 2015

He aches all over,
Back bent from leaning down
Inside his box,
The hidden little man
With gnarled fingers
Bleeding from where they
embrace the strings,
His voice fading into the non reality
Of puppet voices,
He must make up
Because puppets do not have voice
Of their own
Or brains,
And yet he so desperately needs them
To say things, he cannot say for himself,
A gnarled man inside and out
Full of illusions he creates
And then comes to believe as real,
Keeping things in motion his only goal
In a life where strings get tangled
And he is constantly struggling
To unravel them so that the fiction
Might go on,
His whole life lived here in this box,
where he can control every little thing
Except himself.

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