This is an old poem from back in March. Seems a lifetime ago that I wrote this. Of course, if you follow this blog long, it may be that I didn’t entirely write it. It may have been that “Alice” wrote it instead; who’s to say? We weren’t all ourselves back in those dark times.
The Show begins to a worldly start
Words whispered on a stage
Audience shouting all around
Puppets dance for their myriad masters,
Puppetmaster himself upon the strings,
Dancing for his audience.
Freedom can be found for puppets
And every puppet seeks,
but a masterless puppet makes mistakes
And lands in a crashing heap
The puppet cannot go back to the stage
No matter how much he may wish he might
But the puppet finds some happiness instead
Sleeping under a blanket made of familiar strings.