Wednesday, December 12, 2007

The Marionette

He is all string and wood
Has faith as he should
In the benevolent hidden hand

With his heart he's believing
That from the beginning
It was he who made his legs stand

But of late he has noted
The wires that have floated
Around him all his life

If he could just grab a string
He could pull down the thing
Seeing clearly what dictates his strife

If he could he would find
That the hands are of time
And that all of the strings can untangle

Tugging and twisting
Despite his resisting
The cast of his past does still wrangle

A father who raged
Is still above stage
Mangling his son with the wire

A mother he misses
Still has her wishes
And she too pulls the weight

And the things left undone
Are now knotted and hung
Slowing his forward gait

Choice is a lie
And though he has tried
The puppeteers are just that much faster

So he longs for the day
When he cuts them away

And the puppet becomes the mast