Faulty Puppets

Each a puppet.

All must follow the rules. 

Most with strings, some without.

The Puppet who lacks a puppeteer

is limp and dead to all.

 In a mound of shame, 

and desperation to reach for the perfect painted face. 

Even with a voice of pleas, 

the strings are direction. The string is the direction,

often preserved in the handy work of torture from self.  

The face is the same.

All must have. 

And all soulless, 

like skin stripped from the owner,

who just wanted to express self

was stolen.

As if a skeleton of the first was a story spread around,

so a fight for the painted face that all must have

is misdirecting and pointless. 

An empty stage.

The crowd of puppeteers all yelling and telling to direct.

A sloppy dance to make them laugh, or the one being hit from the hammer. 

All to make them laugh, to please.

One out of all is the challenge.

But the worth and reason have long since diminished. 

The fool's gold of an idea 

turns into the very wood of our structure. 

But the golden truth

is the very freedom that detaches the strings. 

So even if dead, be alive.