A Puppet

Someone said I walk like a puppet,

feet stumbling on unseen threads,

jerked forward by silent whispers,

turning where the echos threads.

An endless search for hands to guide,

for someone to pull my strings,

to tell me where to step, to go,

to shape the songs I sing.

Like a lost puppy in the dark,

waiting for a voice, a call,

wandering through hollow streets,

half-alive, yet bound to fall.

No weight to bear, no will of mine,

just empty limbs that twist and sway,

a hollow thing with borrowed breath,

a marionette in disarray.

They tug, they twist, they turn my head,

I dance to orders, not my own,

a fragile doll with glassy eyes,

forever aching to be known.

Tell me where to go, what to be,

give me a script, a role, a name,

for without a master's guiding hand,

am I even here, or just a game?

But strings can fray, and wood can break,

and even puppets come undone.

What am I if I cut the ties?

A ghost, a shadow- or someone?