A Puppet's Song.
Folded & clumsy here I lie,
Peeping from the bag at sly.
When will these, arresting strings,
Be pulled & tugged and freedom bring.
Tis not Freedom, Tis bondage... still,
I yearn to be so tugged at will.
From bag to fingers, Fingers to bag
I wonder, why is life a nag.
The puppeteer with steady hands,
Seems my saviour, yet dominant he stands.
All except my thoughts, he holds,
At the tips of his fingers, my fate unfolds.
An actor for his stories, I love to be
And when he sings, my thoughts fly free.
A hero in me, out he brings,
A prisoner still, I am to his strings.
I'd love to live, no strings attached,
But just those tugs, keep me alive.
What an irony in a tricky life,
Strings or not, a constant strife.
What if I was, a wooden doll,
Would neither breathe nor blink at all.
Or was I a rubber ball,
Beaten and bounced and Hit and all !
Better of am I, as a puppet on a string,
I dance and act and even sing.
Tied and tethered I seem to be,
Bound I am, But yet So Free !
