Poetry: Marionette

suspended from the cusp of dawn by strings that hum the bars of mourning
you move not like the vibrant dancer but like the centipede adorning
the branches of the trees that withered at the roots in black mid-morning
when the church bells rang out silence over the hills in grim forewarning

automatic movements warp your bright routines to dull mechanics
each string tug from unseen hands resembling something inorganic
and those around you whisper in the shadows of the panoramic
world that you once loved to trek but whose views now make you panic

eons painted black and white could pass you by and none the wiser
would your soul in pantomime be due to its hollow-souled advisor
for on inspection, you will find those hands are no one’s sympathizer
but rather unheard echoes of your rejection of life’s equalizer

until one day in solemn tidings the strings that bind you to regret
finally pull too hard and taut as you reach for a loving sobriquet
that you thought long forgotten but always breathed in your vignettes
and relieved, you buck the pain that cast you as a broken marionette

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