The Puppeteer


This is the writer, dancing alone.
A king without freedom, a princess or throne,
He’s never known love, and he’s never known fear,
Yet he continues to dance, pen behind ear.

He’s lonely, the little dancing boy-king;
He longs to see toys, Africa, Spring.
His heart belongs to a world he’s not seen,
But little boy-king only rules in dreams.

This is the writer, free in his mind,
His words are philosophy, yearning to find
A reason for the beautiful puppets he makes;
Such fragile, such perfect, such obvious fakes.

Little boy-king paints on every face
With words of silk, of satin and lace.
With careful strokes he writes their stage,
And his puppets dance in their ivory cage

This is the writer, pretending he knows,
Of friendship and fear, of hatred and foes.
His view of the world is seen as a trance,
(And still his puppets continue to dance.)

Little boy-king is lost in his stories,
Of lovers with flowers and heroes with glories.
The marionettes jerk on their glittering strings.
Some are now angels, with silver-white wings.

This is the writer, a slave to his power,
The illusion of liberty, locked in a tower.
Imagination insists and daydreams demand.
The puppets live on, dance on command.

Oh, come see the king who never grows old.
Come see the master carve lives of gold.
Come see the maestro conduct his cast.
The little boy lost of future and past.

This is the writer, full of delight,
At his little dolls dancing, breezy and bright.
Each has a life that he tends to with care.
They won’t be like him, with nobody there.

Little boy-king adores his domain,
Of smiles in sunlight, of laughing in rain.
He loves how it changes, moulds to his whim,
And how the puppets dance only for him.

This is the writer, little boy-king,
He wonders, just once, as he untangles a string,
Would he join them, given the chance?
And still his puppets continue to dance.