The Puppeteer
06/20 2021
I dumb it down as to be able to perceive it,
In pieces it makes no sense, but if,
If I add them all up they'll deceive me
And that is the great big secret:
As the torch is passed on, nothing ever changes,
Yet the accumulated debt just rises,
Following the development of our plastic deceivers
I see it, many others do, but most of us
Are contained to the limitations of our secrets,
Secrets that only remain secret
If we tell our neighbors, who scoff and laugh
Which in turn turns the turning point toward the burning.
The puppeteer and its master
Argue over the natural order.
If the goal is predetermined,
Presupposed and determined
By the puppets gangly movements
Does it matter that its thousand legs
Don't move without the flick in the wrist
Of the balding, wise old master?
So wise that his liver is failing,
And he blames the puppet, and not the whiskey.
Inexplicable, in a way,
The synthesis between the most basic
Of opposing feelings
How it undulates in broken puzzle pieces
In scratches on old records,
Where they sing of contemporary truths
And in old sonnets, where rhythm
Is merely assumed, yet crucial.
In sitting alone by the window,
Dancing alone by the window,
The weather changes, the wind always,
Always blows in the direction
Of ice & fire, of pieces, of strings
And it always ends where perception falters
A shadow that we all know,
But that we can never see its original object
Things end at unexpected places.
Does it really matter if I study people,
If they just keep on changing?
Just like how the weather in a universe
Hoping to be analyzed,
But which retreats from your every move
Time flows through it to you,
In pieces to the universe as a whole
Travel back in an effort to retrieve it,
Find yourself in the jungle of your own heart
That is, unless you feel the wind
Like the plant does to the rain
Or how drops form oceans, just like a tear.