Marionette

I’m an old marionette,
Constructed of the flimsiest lime wood,
I was discarded from the pier of life,
Left in the mud,
Sinking slowly but surely,

A small parody of a clown,
A joke in truth,
Closer than I’d like to admit,
Faded paintwork,
No longer any particular shade,

Tattered strings made of hazy twine,
A control bar rusted by seawater,
I fear my puppeteer went astray,
Never been to an opera,
A puppet without a show,

Now the renaissance is over,
The dark comes,
I saw the sun exit stage right,
This peat will consume,
My little wooden heart.

Puppet

The puppet sleeps soundly,
He smiles in his sleep,
Dreaming endlessly of a life unfulfilled,
A pointless life,
An empty life.

He dreams of paying obscene taxes,
He has notions of amounting to nothing,
He fantasizes about voting for tyrants,
He dreams of a dead-end job,
His life is not his own.

He has nightmares of a better life,
Nightmares of relaxation,
Nightmares of aspiring for more,
Nightmares of finding romance,
His life is that of a manikin.

His strings wait calmly,
Waiting for a new day,
A new dance,
A new missed chance,
A day closer to the rubbish heap.

And then he awakens,
This puppet is not made of wood,
But of flesh and bone,
His puppeteer is no entertainer,
But a society that doesn’t truly care.

Then the puppet puts on his suit,
And goes to work.