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,
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
where he can control every little thing
Except
himself.
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