The Marionette

They carved her lips

to smile just so.

Painted blush,

a modest bow.

Her hands were hinged

with care and thread,

and in her chest —

no heart. Just wood instead.

They dressed her

in a velvet gown,

with golden cuffs

and lace spun down.

On stage, she danced

when strings were pulled.

The crowds would clap.

The lights would cool.

She knew no thought,

no want, no fear.

But oh,

the things she'd seen from here.

A prince, betrayed.

A jester’s fall.

A puppet war.

A paper ball.

Children grew.

Directors changed.

Curtains frayed

and roles rearranged.

She did not speak.

She did not cry.

But every night,

she learned the sky —

the sound of silence after bows,

the creak of wood,

the weight of vows.

And now she waits

within a case,

forgotten props,

dust-laced lace.

No more scripts.

No standing light.

But still —

she’s ready every night.

Just pull the string,

and she will bend.

A painted ghost

who won’t pretend

to feel.

But still remembers

when

the house would rise

and fall again.