The Puppeteer
I hold my creation with rough, callused hands,
Simple, imperfect, and new.
It smiles back with glorious life
Where once I merely held wood.
I am mother, father, crafter, god,
And it is my life’s greatest work.
See how my creation dances!
She how it jumps, leaps and twirls!
It’s almost like it’s alive, you say,
And even looks somewhat like me.
Alas, it may have been its jagged smile
And lumpy edges that made it so.
Yet, it is an easy fix,
And to my workshop, I return.
I hold my creation with messy, painted hands,
Glossy, refined, and improved.
A bright red smile conceals the jagged line
And its edges are smooth and polished.
I should assume it would be happy to be perfected
In such a way that Man cannot.
See how my creation no longer bears flaws!
See its agelessness and immortality!
It’s as beautiful as the happiest child, you say,
And resembles me more than ever.
The suggestion causes my creation to clatter,
Disappointed by the comparison.
I see its threads were too fragile to hold this time.
Perhaps returning to the workshop would fix that.
I hold my creation with reddened, trembling hands,
Graceful, intricate, and elegant.
The loveliest golden threads hold its body together,
Unlike mine, ever aging and degrading.
I have perfected upon perfection,
Made Adam into an Adonis.
My heart swells with pride
And I return it to the world.
See how my creation flies!
See it soar like the grandest bird!
I pray that you don’t see the thick threads
Digging into my weathered skin.
And yet, you say worse:
That now we are as twins.
In fact, could this small dancing thing
Have been me all along?
How dare you! Simply, how dare!
How dare you compare the swan
To the worm it feeds upon!
How dare you compare the deer
To the fleas on its back!
I spit and swear and curse your name
And turn my back on your foul tongue.
I hold my creation over the fire,
Fierce, angry, and eager.
It’s a foul thing now, an abomination.
It’s better to let it burn and start anew.
And yet, I cannot drop it,
Nor allow the flames to lick even its threads.
I hold my creation to myself
And catch its painted smile flaking off.
The fire crackles in front of us
As I chip the paint off, exposing its true jagged grin.
I hold my creation,
And I struggle to remember
Which of us is the puppet.
