My little friend, emotionless and plain,
My puppet, dear, brings psychotic strain,
The iron in his heart, is messing with my brain.
His shadow wrought, upon my soul,
Grinning, gaping, black as coal,
Makes me wonder, am I whole?
Lilting notes, a trembling hand,
Plucks the strings, strand by strand,
The chior in my heart so bland.
Singing of the metal wrought,
Telling me, I should not have bought,
This puppet in my hand, I sought.
An aria of silence, down within my core,
Deepness so profound, and I found so much more,
Floating in myself, I can finally soar.
The puppet plays a melody, well worn,
I dance and sing, I cry and mourn,
A puppeteer, sundered and forlorn.
Myself, the puppet master,
Dead and dieing faster.
Now I wear my puppet's strings,
Along with such assorted things.
I have fallen into the part,
An actor true, I take to heart.
I play a show of reversing roles,
But now I know, that we switched souls.
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Submission Name: Puppet Strings
