Stars and Strings

They were a puppet holding their own strings

Worn and rough

Clutched so tightly in wooden fingers they had begun to gone numb

Limbs clunking together as they tried to pirouette

Like the other girls had done in ballet

Apart of the audience once they’d watch

How easily they glided, with their spooling shades of white

their pointed feet kissed the floors

arms in arcs that painted the stage in heavenly shades

With their own ethereal language that exceeded tongue

Perfect control of their porcelain bodies

They needed no strings

They burned with talent, a beautiful blaze

The kind that leaves stars in your eyes long after it decays

The stage had gone dim when the young puppet wished

‘How I wish I had their grace’

But their scarred oak joints creaked with each twist

Tangling and splintering

Their flat wooden feet scrapped across the floor, bruised from misuse for a dance they were not made for

From the strain of holding themself up they forgot to look back

To see how despite the others grace they too had been cracked

Surrounded by their own brilliance, they could not see how they were now what other girls wished to become

But perhaps one more routine

Would finally settle their need

To be a star, more than just a puppet on strings