The Puppeteer

WHIRR, CLICK.
WHIRR, CLICK.

Solid gold bar face.
Still. Silent. Straight.
Tin foil ruffled dress.
Crushing, crumbling, crinkling.

WHIRR, CLICK.
WHIRR, CLICK.

The people stare strangely at the figure,
Hypnotised by the jerks of arm and head.

He is one time puppeteer, one time puppet
Pulling the strings of his audience
Making them squeal,
Just as they pull on his strings, to help him sleep safe at night.

It is the ultimate relationship.
The interchangeable master and toy,
No Pinocchio here my boy.

He views it all with his eyes wide open
Though on the other side are eyes wide in fear,
Without the sense to understand the concept of the dichotomy
His audience are simply lambs to the slaughter,
Torm limb from limb into a world of steel.

WHIRR, CLICK.
WHIRR, CLICK.

He pulls their strings until they tire of him,
When they yawn and lazily retreat behind doors of red, blue and green,
And they ask each other:
'What can he want to do that for?'