Puppet Strings

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Strings on her hands,

Strings on her feet.

With movements robotic,

The strings are discreet.

Controlled and timed,

As she dances around.

Caged in momentum,

She makes no sound.

No voice to be heard,

When she opens her mouth.

But what ever happened,

To little Miss Strouth?

Her hands are heavy,

Her torso is wood.

She can't be herself,

She's a puppet for good.

Used by others,

She fills them with glee.

She's tortured on strings,

While they laugh happily.

For little Miss Strouth,

Just wanted to please.

But now life is repeating,

As a doll she will freeze.

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