The Marionettes

By Andrew R. Duckworth

We live in marionettes now,
Attempting to burst our way out
From the core. Follow the strings
And we won’t see the puppeteer,
Too high up on lofty seats
Tying new strings to new parts.
They do their little dance,
The marionettes, choppy
And orchestrated, practiced
To death before the show begins,
As a squeaky voice makes them say
Whatever they please.
They can put a new hat on it,
But it’s still the same puppet.