Master of Puppets
The master of puppets, he sits and creates.
The pieces he has, they fit as they shape.
His self, his being are in the toys he makes.
Precise and caring, the tools never break.
He tries his best to bring them to life
He's just one man, but his work will suffice
He masters his art night after night
He sets them aside so calm and polite
He never speaks, but his toys always talk.
His legs are weak, but his toys always walk.
They lead the life he never could.
He carves his soul into the wood.
He lived and died with them by his side,
he lived and died and his puppets, they cried
His soul has moved on from this crumbled estate
But in the attic, his puppets, they wait....
*Dedicated to my very sick cousin John... Get better soon!*
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
