54. Marionette

Four strings, a head, and wooden sticks for bones,
A heart of wire, face of painted wood
That flails its smile forever, as it should,
And twitches out its steps to creaking groans
In guise of king and paupers, maids and crones,
Each stepping to intangible a pulse,
The gentle ebbs, the omnipresent lulls,
The hesitance of hearts of crafted stones.

They dance together not of their accord,
But moved by monsters flapping Condor wings
That sweep them on the winds of destiny.
So if one breaks, severed from its own cord,
Then heed it not. For you are slave of things
That move your hands to dry your tears with glee.