Wooden Puppet, Wooden Puppet
Moments in this life can be as dark as sin.
Darker still, so that even the deepest, deadest night
Does not, could not, compare to their evil.
Black enough, that the rise of the Sun on the clearest dawn
Could not banish their anger.

Even love, that great unattainable Love
Cannot heal the burns.
It cannot scab over the cuts and or soothe the bruises
Inflicted by these dark moments on the soul.
They remain as scars, forever marring the heart.

Skeletons in the closet, gum under the table.
Hidden,
Cried softly away.
These dark things that try to ruin, to break,
To shatter the soul upon the forefront of the heart.

These moments do not choose their victims.
The victims are chosen nonetheless.
I knew them, I did, but walked away sill living
But broken, I had to be put back together again
And whoever did it tried very hard, cared deeply for me.

They put back the pieces
To the jigsaw puzzle that makes up me
With love and affection.
But they forgot a piece, or put it in backwards.
And now I am forced to walk just a little crooked.

A puppet suspended on a thousand strings
Each white, as soft as silk, and slim as a spider’s web.
Yet still, with the perfection of its animation,
There is one, perhaps even two strings, which were cut with darkness eternal.
With blackness so complete it became knifelike, deadly.

Now those strings lie wasted at its wooden feet.
So that it will always be a little abused,
A little cut, a little broken, a little quicker to anger.
And now he must walk, that poor little puppet,
Just a little crooked.

Like a bowling ball spinning
Faster and end over end, towards a glass castle
My secrets build and stretch inside me.
Threatening to burst and break down this fortress I built;
That now seems so petty with compare.

And when they do
My kingdom will shatter outwards and inwards.
I won’t be able to contain the implosion of impossibilities
That will threaten to overcome my existence.
Black moments seeping from glass cracks, like water from a sieve.

But each night has a dawn.
Each dog has his day.
No darkness is complete.
Yet still they come, in marching lines, my sins and follies.
But all I am is simple, broken, forgotten.

Just a little wooden puppet,
Wooden puppet.