The marionette has your number
Pulling your arms and legs till you can't stand on your own
Dragging you conscience on the stage
And your heart gets rearranged,
And you cannot tell your mentor from your Maker
Look at the crowds bleeding with laughter
Over the way you entertain at beckon call
They don't see behind the lights or the painted background
They just like to see you fall
And you don't really mind
And you're just wasting time
And you don't feel anything
You're a boy on a string
I feel a sadness like Gapetto
Watching the life that he created run away,
Seeing the puppeteer's intrusion
And holding the remains of puppets that had rotted away
One day the curtain will not open
And all of the crowds will go away
But sometimes those strings will choke you
But until that day
No you won't really mind
And you're just wasting time
And you don't feel anything
You're a boy on a string
And you don't really mind
And you're just wasting time
And you don't feel anything
You're a boy on a string.
The Past “Ain’t that the curse of the second hand” (Mark Heard) My mirror today was time, with her unexplained folding each time I recollect the reason Grandma lives in Oklahoma, I eat cheerios without milk, and where the purple-knit scarf came from “Mad World” looped as I remembered, credence bestowed, not to the absurdity of answers, but Of Time’s erasal Of them all.
27 February 2008
Boy on a String, by Jars of Clay
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