History Is a Wind Up Doll

we are puppets and we are paintings of puppets past historic yet breathing living but not alive we are dancing upon your no mans land and we are spinning to the melody of the tears our mothers shed upon the same no mans land history is a wind up doll history repeats itself like the hiss of a broken music box the sound the clamour is silent but the white noise that rises from the ashes of our mothers cry is deafening past is prologue our tongues are tied chained to the rhythm of breaking through but not breaking free our hearts are sinking in the trenches of yesterday our minds are reaching for the scraps of tomorrow and we are still spinning but we are spinning into focus our smiles are wilting our eyes are gathering dust our war paint is fading our war is over because we were never really at war with you, puppeteer because you too are a puppet of many puppets of many puppets of many puppets of many