They dangle by threads proclaiming and uttering the lie of
being flesh and bone. Boxed into an office of their own.
Directed by the tall chairs, yet under the impression of
being real in the way they act.
They manipulate the crowd, but above their heads hang
a hand. Some of them feel the relentless tug and burn out
in the lights… so bright.
Back in the day there weren’t the same chains.
The shine seemed less, but the ropes were longer.
Even now they are free to move until the extension
fails and can only be cut.
Then it is rebound and cut and rebound and cut.
Sometimes they think they believe that they have more control.
Others realize the futile attempts to place a permanent mark.
They bark and bark until their own little paws are given some string.
They compete… yet they utter the restraint… wishing they could
pulp wood and inscribe their own name.
They are polished by their brief fame,
even this wood must go to the flame, before paper does.
They have forgotten… it is a crying shame.