Someone pulls the strings, <br />We are but puppets created for a play, <br />Made to dance or walk or fall, <br />For the puppet masters whim, <br /> <br />Who writes my lines? <br />Choosing the characters that I play? <br />Can it be I have a choice, <br />To cut the strings and walk away? <br /> <br />It it then I'll know the secret? <br />Understand who controls the fates? <br />That I will be taken from this stage <br />and saved for another play? <br /> <br />Will I ever know the answer <br />to make the knowledge my joy? <br />Or am I paying for an indiscretion <br />a failure from another scene? <br /> <br />Do we keep repeating and rehersing our lines <br />Until we get it right? <br />And for every error that mankind makes <br />does the puppetmaster start anew? <br /> <br />The treadmill that we walk <br />Monuments which we sometimes pass <br />Several times in rememberance <br />De ja vous of a tomorrow that we've already played.<br /><br />Sara Turner<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/puppet-master-2/
