August 17, 2011

The Marionette

Around and around, the marionette danced, her arms in the air, her legs going here, then there, as the music played on, and on, and on.

Fingers pulled, each length of string, one by one, and one by one she danced to the music, and as it played she would swing, on and on, on and on

The face of the marionette looked up, then down, then all around, with eyes of paint, the color of brown.

The hair of the marionette was black as the night, face fringed with curls, it wound round and round and round her face, ever so tight.

The strings of the marionette twisted, and wound, her arms hung limp, then taut, she danced to the music, a puppet forgot.

She was real, she was alive, with music infused, she could smile, she could laugh, and she danced as she cried.

To the left, to the right, as she turned she stirred, she bent, she skipped, and they danced to the night.

With a twist of the thread she was real for a moment, she dipped, she swayed, she swung, she performed in her strings, until tangled she hung.

No comments:

Post a Comment