On us Puppets

 
Puppets dance across a red-litten stage,
the puppeteer with indolent eyes
looks bemused at his creations
uncaring that each whim strains strings
 
till, one by one, under the weight
they break, one by one,
each puppet collapses
in agony to his hands.
 
Eventually they rust there in a skein
of remnants of rotted wood,
a dance-wearied decay of former lives,
puppets mostly tarnish and now nameless.
 
And with a whisk of his fingers,
from deep stage, enters
another or a few, a troop
or tempest to enter directly,
 
entertain the puppeteer,
eventually fade,
away, usually,
before the final act.

 

 

- Phillip Ellis