The Puppeteer

I pull on the strings and They stop for a while,
To see his limbs flailing, his wide painted smile.
A figure of folly, he dances and clatters,
Helping Them to forget more serious matters.
Shrouded by velvet, he performs all alone:
No room for another with so much going on.

My fingers are aching, my arms have grown sore,
But how can I stop when They’re calling for more?
The show must go on or They might walk away,
And I must stay unseen for the duration of play.
A movement of curtain might elicit confusion,
A visible finger would spoil the illusion.

I pick up the pace, try to hold Their attention,
Since the aim of this game is audience retention.
It seems to be working, The Crowd watch with awe,
But the strings slash my skin, my palms are now raw.
The hours of hard graft start taking their toll.
The Puppet swings wildly. I’m losing control.

In an instant I find I’m caught up in his tangle,
The strings pull so tight, I choke as they strangle.
The Puppet and I, caught up in this mess,
But he doesn’t seem to share my distress.
I’m tightly bound while he gently swings,
And it’s no longer clear who’s pulling the strings.

(c) Joey Kavanagh, 2008 (published in 'Set in Stone: A Collection of Original Writing by DCU students')