Puppeteer

Strings about the air
Twisting earthly forms

Oh how, how does that false lord
The Puppeteer, above

Illustrate so many
In the slightest twitch of a hand

Those eyes, they burn
An incinerating solar watch

Looking back? Impossible.
Drained is the heart of freedom.

Spiraling. Drowning. Too
Tangled to reach for scissors

His lustful smile, a mosaic
Of ancient lore

Father once gained freedom
Early years. Before that light.

Before the spiral of panic.
Now the puppeteer fiddles a musical.

How was it before he came?
It was red. Everywhere

Podiums are now neglected,
The sky is a replacement.

I can’t imagine strings worse
Than those pulled by the Puppeteer

Freedom. Forbidden in the absolutes.
The Puppeteer was flawed

For he believed in absolutes
And therefore he, himself was a middle ground.

A no-man’s land. Puppets
Could not have a say, anyway.

We could only smile
Branded under his singing gaze.

Attached to these strings
His marionette