The Game -2

His smile of paint, of wood, of greed

His eyes are small back rings

Although it seems an irony,

He’s pulling all your strings.

He makes you laugh, and cry, and smile

He makes you frown and blink

He makes your mind a world of haze:

In short, he makes you think

He makes you jerk, and walk, and run,

Along the checkered path

And if you step outside the line

You’ll feel his wooden wrath

He makes you hunger, thirst, and move,

He makes you want to win

And all your petty victories

Are engineered by him

Now you break free, run from the path

And see him, moving close

He jerks along the ground in spasms,

Wooden as a post

You ask, “Who are you?”, inching back

You’re paralyzed with fear

He smiles and says maliciously,

“The master puppeteer.”

Confusion, horror, you see now

Protruding right from him…

A stick, with strings, a puppet-man-

And your own severed limb