A poet ere who's strings are cut

a poet ere who’s strings are cut

If we cut the puppet’s strings,
are we stopping the puppet.
Or the puppeteer.
If we decide not to listen,
do we stop hearing,
or are we deaf.
If we choose not to see,
are we short sited,
or just afraid.

The all seeing puppet danced with gangly legs,
and people stood enraptured.
And when the puppet's strings were cut,
all the grace was recaptured.
Then, who danced on through that night,
when the puppet lay in a heap.
Was it the puppeteer dancing for his soul,
and was it his to keep.
If we the writer, writ the poetic masterpiece,
are the words ours to own.
Do words borrow us as vessels of release,
and voices to set the tone.