The puppet preens upon the stage. <br />The backdropp is his puppeteer, <br />whose screen winds into sturdy strings <br />that hold his mind in their tight grip, <br />controlling him without a slip. <br /> <br />The funhouse mirrors make him laugh, <br />then rage, then cry, or fear, or smile. <br />He is a most pathetic chap, <br />with no repose or true release. <br />The changing backdropp is his life. <br />Its calms give momentary peace, <br />until a storm starts up again. <br /> <br />He’s tired of dancing to this tune, <br />whatever tune the backdropp plays— <br />the cheap effects, the tawdry days, <br />the heroines. The hero slays <br />a dragon, then gets slain himself. <br /> <br />He’s tired of the plots and themes, <br />the comedies, the tragedies. <br />He knows by now his mind’s a slave <br />to shadows within Plato’s cave. <br />A close-up kiss, good deeds, crimes, <br />he’s done them all a million times, <br /> <br />and yet, how does he cut the strings <br />to become radically unhinged— <br />to cry at joy and laugh at pain? <br />The world would see him as insane— <br /> <br />the shadow world, it’s true, and yet, <br />the only world he knows, as yet. <br /> <br />To heed a whisper that he hears <br />deeper than his outer ears, <br />a voice—maybe, a voice to trust? <br />Else, all returns into mere dust.<br /><br />Max Reif<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-puppet/
