Figure of Freedom

Life? It is I.. the damsel at the end of  fine strings

you pulled and tossed and whirled about at your whim

For so long, your sweet marionette- pale, demure,

graceful lovechild of your frigid union with fate

Flailing when you said to flail only, letting you speak

for all that I was supposed to be holding inside

You twirled your hands just so... and I danced

I danced until I hated dancing, even hated music

for I did not realize there was a way to loose myself

without having to lose myself

 

One day, your little puppet on a leash had a dream

She had a conscious thought, began sharpening her wit

until the edge cut so keenly through the lines you held-

sending her clattering to the ground, alone, but free

Bruised, but not shattered within or even without

she stood up, and for the first time, she invented

She invented a new dance, to a new song, by herself

But even more, she taught it to some others... your toys

Oh, whatever shall you do when the dusty shelf is empty?

 

No one need suffer the hand that holds the strings.