Puppet Masters

We’re all dancing the same dance.
Bobbing and swaying to the beats of life.
With our painted on faces
And our wooden bodies
Our strings become tangled.
We try to reach up
And untie the knots.
But our hands are pushed back down
Before we miss the next beat.
The puppet masters dictate
Our every step.
Our every movement.
But without these strings,
What will hold us up?
We’re just wood after all.
Brought to life
By the hand of a puppeteer.


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