The Puppeteer

Isn't it ironic that the seeds of this earth are the cause for its own demise?

Reasons for this ageless conundrum has been translated in many forms...

Is it man's own greed to dominate the exaggerated population's insecurities with madden fascism?

Is it the obscurity of love and the multitude of hazardous forms that disguises it:

The disarray of lust & passion.

The mistaken panacea that masks a dismal reality.

The slow self-decomposition of a heart that has only found failure or the absence of this stimulant.

Is this how the puppeteer wanted it to be?

Or is it that our daily endeavors are the puppeteer's form of entertainment.

Perhaps we're mere players in the puppeteer's traveling sideshow.

Controlling us with the invisible strings of fate.

Manipulating us into dancing the dance of redundant life.

Balancing the scales of good and evil in our ongoing performances.

Are we truly the prime product of Gepetto's craftsmanship?

Insignificant playthings that are the star thespians of the puppeteer's theater we call; home...

Author's Notes/Comments: 

One of my more earlier pieces I found in my portfolio. I think I was being a bit pretentious with this one...

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