As the puppeteer pulls His strings, The fragile doll spreads Her wings. To dance a ballet as He directs That is the Curse of the Marionette.
Controlled by a hand far, far above, Forbidden to care, forbidden to love. Forever shall She mime what She cannot know, Until the day She loses her illusory glow.
Propped up on a stilt where wine once stood, The Marionette is, once more, only wood. Her glossy eyes have lost their shine, Her silken hair, turned to twine.
What a fate awaits the poor little doll, Who dances and runs but cannot stand at all. And the puppeteer is applauded at the end of every show, But the audience's joyous response the doll can never know.
I am but a doll on an endless stage, Dancing for others whilst I slowly age. My puppeteer sits far above, Hiding His face behind a white glove.
And when I have aged to nothing but wood, I will be tucked away in a closet where a doll once stood. Then, as I gather dust and the world passes by, I will be forgotten by the vast, blue sky.