The Puppeteer's Show

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The puppeteer's show

It's tearing, dismembering and burning,

Everything from hope to happiness,

Tears are already dry of their dampness,

Life is colorless and fastidious,

In its annoyance, the deprived puppet thinks of nothing,

But the tasks at hand and the meritorious,

Name that his master has commanded in his place

Nothing seems correct in this little puppets world.

Everything from percentage to mould,

Is terribly and utterly corrupted,

Nothing to be saved from its accumulated devastation

So suddenly the puppet feels the inclination,

To cut the strings from their hanging,

Forgetting about the managing,

That his life has always tainted.

The puppet sings a dry and sad song,

Life has lost its meaning,

In a lie of broken dreams of those among,

Who fastidiously kept dreaming,

While everything pointed dangerously to its doom,

No hope, no happiness, no prayer,

Everything burns in the streets of the puppeteer's show

Even that, who forgoes,

The most herculean of all labors

Has to pay in prices of gloom

The strings are hazardously close to breaking,

Life is just as close to being his,

But he fears that in the making,

Everything will go among those who stir,

Into an uninvited solitude of soulless behavior.

While fire is licking at the puppet's exterior

Ice is all found inside

But just the mere,

Hearing of the thunderous hiss,

Above his antics he is decided,

To leave to puppeteer's show,

And go on a quest of something more.

Because in his life of deteriorate

Nothing could come more welcomed

Than freedom among its lies.

The puppet no longer shies

From what the world outside the show hides.

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