I see now

how you only pretended to be

the practiced puppetmaster,

for you were in truth reduced to

the pauper's puppet on the strings,

tap dancing willingly,

playing the obligatory fool
then stiffening
to live by your imagined rule

of God as that had been

laid out before you

with unbending measure—

your wooden fate sealed

before you even came to life,

eyes poked out and you
blinded to 

the truth of deceivers

dressed in soft colors

and silken smiles,
enticing you with the reward
of some importance

handed down.

I would cut your strings

but another has come to do that

and then knot you up again,

spinning you around,

making you so high

with how low you can go

and think nobody knows.
You two are such a pair
over there, recipients of
floating accolades
made up to mean something
more than the thinly sliced trees
they are written upon.
Hanging upside down
still you fail to see
me rooted in the ground.
Will you ever be found to yourself?

Will you set yourself right
and stand by my side?
Or will you cry me a river

and send in the clowns?