Not much commentary on this, just something I wrote while waiting in the car for a friend. I am mostly a fan of the last four lines of this poem.
A twitching dance,
performed in chains.
Each move directed,
and neatly arranged.
He knows no freedom,
was born a slave
to his master's will;
he'll dance to his grave.
He can never be free,
and with perfect devotion
the marionette dances;
his purpose in motion.
No comments:
Post a Comment