Friday, November 6, 2015

Marionettes born of dust

So much dust
Wandering this terra,
Baked with fire and water.
Hidden and cloaked under
The robes of humanity.
Soft and undefined,
Impressionable like clay.
Shaped and molded by
The deft and expert
Hands of our Maker.
The sculptures put to life,
Like dancing puppets
Dangling by strings
Operated by Puppeteer.
The dolls gathering dust
And withering away.
To dust they return,
These marionettes.
All that matters
In the end,
All that echos around is an "if".
If that
Short performance on the stage
Was worthy of a standing ovation?

PHOTO PROMPT – © Connie Gayer …(Mrs. Russell)
Linking with Friday Fictioneers


Since every thought is a seed, I am looking forward to a delicious harvest.