Raise those curtains and we will start our act,
We will prance around with our wooden hands, our wooden mouths and wooden hearts.

We will greet each other with those plastered smiles,
We will see through each other with those plastered eyes.
Metal hooks piercing our skin,
Holding those threads, working those sins.

A little above and inside our head,
The self named brain grins to itself,
Its fingers tangled in a cobweb of threads, but it’s no confusion it’s all part of its play.

Rapid fingers, pulling of threads,
Some find love, the others are dead.
It’s roar of laughter, spitting of jokes,
Some more arm fights, some more dead.
Some more strings pulled and teased,
Leave us doubting, our bit of sanity.
No more pulling, fingers ache,
Boredom seeps in, sleepy gaze.

But genuinely grateful,
For the day it found,
Those pieces of wood,
Lying out there on the ground.

It goes back to its lair, while we play things rest,
To make a few changes for the show next day.

While the confetti blows and the curtains draw,
The lone audience in the last row claps,
At his own crazy creation,
He disposed on earth one day,
But they do make a good puppet show, with a shrug he walks away.