THE PUPPET

am a puppet.

At least I am sometimes.

 

It’s partly my old body.

My motions feel as if

they are not mine.

I move from here to there

as if  my body were on strings.

 

And then, my mind

goes everywhere.

It seems I have no choice

and so I  yield to thoughts

I hadn’t planned to think.

 

I  blame the puppeteer

when things go wrong.

 

I also have to  thank him.

At times the joy

that comes to me

is quite beyond

my power to induce.

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