The Life of a Puppet

I feel sorry for you,
Your shaped plastic, paint and thread,
Sentenced to death by hanging.
Brought back to life by the strings
That broke your neck
That now move the plastic jaw,
Arms and legs of cloth.
And dance you around on stage.
You only come to life through the hands of the puppeteer,
Who's skill is limited,
And emotions are hampered with translation.

Steal a knife,
Cut your bonds,
And escape your jail of children shows.
Stun your jailer with your cry for freedom,
Leave this life to build a better one.

Someday soon I hope to be sitting in a cafe,
Considering the politics of drinking coffee to fast or to slow,
And see you flash by on the street.
Free to be your own puppeteer,
Expressing your emotion without translation.