puppeteer

Veiled be­hind the curtain’s glow,
Pup­peteer, you run the show,
Make me dance now, make me sing,
Oh Pup­peteer, are you my king?
You think you know what I de­serve,
You make me dance, you make me swerve,
But Pup­peteer, could you be king,
If I strung you upon a string?
I’d make you jump across the floor,
I’d run you till your feet were sore,
And then I’d hang you on a shelf,
Left alone, with you, your­self.
You’d won­der when I would re­turn,
Your heart would fill with odd con­cern,
For why should you care about me,
The soul who’ll nev­er set you free?
I’ve left you bro­ken, forced awake,
While in my ab­sence I still take,
Stuck in­side this end­less dream,
Strip­ping you of self-es­teem.
Yet still you’ll cry when I ap­pear,
Not from sor­row, or from fear,
Mis­guid­ed, you will seek my hand,
For with­out me you can­not stand.
So here we go, back to the show,
The au­di­ence will nev­er know,
Oh Pup­peteer, Oh Pup­peteer,
One day it will be me you fear.

—kay­la walk­er

Flom­mist Kay­la Walk­er is just a sim­ple poet who is fas­ci­nat­ed by rhyme, us­ing it as a voice to speak for the girl lost in her own mind. Copy­right © 2016 Kay­la Walk­er. Im­age source: kel­ly Rakowski/Nothing is New blog: Mar­i­onettes by W.A. Dwig­gins, from the Rare Books De­part­ment of the Boston Pub­lic Li­brary.

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