Here I hang, my arms bound by his strings.
My every move crafted by his skilled hands.
I nervously await the return of my puppeteer,
Who holds me in the spotlight and commands me to dance.
My master looks deeply into my glassy eyes,
And the intensity of his gaze pierces into my haunted soul.
His hold over my wooden heart is heavy.
But I ache from this show we incessantly perform.
However, with each beautiful smile that shines across his face,
My knees go weak again. The spotlights shine brighter.
An element of sparkle returns to my performance.
For a moment, I begin to feel real again.
But then after the applause, and the fireworks,
Those bright lights begin to dim once again.
The room empties, and the world falls silent.
And the glow from my puppeteer’s face begins to fade.
He carries my fragile body back to that darkened room,
And carefully places me back onto his shelf.
And this agonising pang of reality penetrates my heart.
The show is over. Again.