The String Puppet

The rings on his fingers were golden chunks set with onyx

His hair draped like a thin black veil around his head

Hardly hanging on at the crown.

He stood like a string puppet on the stage

Limbs all angles, motioning to the audience

Come closer please, and hold your breath

The first three rows stand and swarm

Their seats and minds forgotten

As the puppet starts to sing.

With the beat of the drum the crowd moves and sways

Directed by the puppet, mastered by the strings

A murmur, a muttering lyrical cry

And the vibrating clash of the church chime

The staggering puppet man points

With a crumpled floating arm

And goads the congregation

Who tremble and shake like mad things.

When is it over? It is never over.

The higgs boson does not bend for time

And the power of the puppet never dies.

The transmogrified antipodean poet will return

Or so the papers say.

The sky never falls, but is pushed away.

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