It seems the poetic muse has struck again….
The Marionette.
A little pirouette…
A dip,
A turn,
A spin.
The splits…
A kick,
A bow,
The puppet on the string.
Does it have a mind of its own?
Does it have a choice,
An opinion,
A voice?
Does it get to say yes, I’ll dance tonight?
Or no, the feelings not right…
Does it get to chose the words it can say…
Or to whom?
Does it get to feel with its own heart?
Or must it only dance it’s part?
The two step…
The jive,
Waltzing,
But it’s alive…
This puppet on its strings,
This dancing marionette.
It feels,
And thinks,
And speaks,
And it’s voice will be heard.
For it is proud,
And it is strong,
And it will dance to its own song.
For these strings have no controller,
To twist,
Turn,
Spin,
Or pull.
It will discard the strings that tie it down,
That get caught in the winds of life.
It will dance free,
On the wind of change,
And on…and on…and on…..
Andrea Bramhall 