We Are the Puppets Still Moving on Invisible Strings
sad to say
i mourn for all of us here
we claim we shape our own destinies
our hands as maps
our anticipations as compass
of what we must become
to places of
the hearts
this is the irony:
we are still puppets on our
invisible strings
on purple clothes
we boast
we are on our own now
our feet
shamed by stones
who preferred
the dignity of their being
mute
in that silence of leaves
upon heaps
of those molds and moss
stories told....
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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