Expectations

I see the strings now.

I must have been blind-

how those strings reflect the light,

I may honestly go blind.

My eyes follow the strings downward.

The curtains swing wide open,

Props are brought forth, arranged.

The stage is set.

The actors pulled toward the center,

Sing and dance, however they please.

Unaware they're marionettes and what's attached,

held together by a strand or two.

Those movements so lifelike,

So real and surreal. 

So similar to me;

Not congruent.

My eyes- I avert them.

Follow the strings to their source,

And I find what I never wanted to find: Two floating hands.

This duo of hands are unattached,

limbs without a body, 

appendages with no face,

fingers no core.

Those hands move so elegantly-

No efforts nor mistakes in their movements. 

You want me to replace those hands.

Attain and maintain a steady grip,

Become puppeteer and puppet-master,

Intertwine strings and hands till the circulation is cut off,

Let others climb that which is tethered to their heads.

Impossible.

I'd rather cut the thread all together.

My desires are impossible too.

Cutting the strings only leads to one end,

Those hands would wither then die.

The puppets, detached, lose their oxygen-

Consequently, the crowd erupts,

The show taken from them.

No. Instead I'll spectate.

Watch what unfolds. Applaud. Laugh.

Cry. Smile. Love. Then take my leave.

Head home and sleep.