Born unto the world unwillingly,
From the moment of her first raspy cry
To pierce the heavens,
She was thrust into a world of glass puppets,
Where the world was her stage,
Fate the puppeteer,
And her family the strings.
Like a good little puppet,
She obeyed the puppeteer
And subdued to the strings.
Every waking moment of her life,
And even her dreams,
Were carefully orchestrated against
Her own accord,
Like a nightmare disguised as a whimsical troupe
Played on an endless loop.
One day, whilst she danced upon the stage,
Just beyond the silver veil that shrouded
Her grey, mechanical life,
The puppet saw something,
Something she could not quite explain.
A bird adorned with colors never before seen
Flew about just out of reach,
Free from strings and bureaucratic fervor.
The puppet longed to perform alongside the bird,
But like an animal locked in an iron cage,
The poor little puppet could not leave her stage.
She longed to earn her wings,
And learn to flutter and flap,
But her strings and the unseen hand
That guided them would not allow
The little puppet to venture past her stage.
“The world outside is dangerous,”
The strings warned the little puppet.
“You are frail and made of glass. If you leave, you’ll surely shatter,”
The puppeteer apprised.
“And without us, you’ll go nowhere,”
They chirped in unison.
“Useless, worthless, weak and frail. If you leave, you’ll burn in hell,”
They chanted over and over again.
As the words spun fast ‘round her hollow head,
And tired of the charade she had long lived,
The little puppet clipped her strings.
“Mock and jabber all you please! Who needs strings when I’ve got these?”
The puppet shouted as she leapt from her stage.
Her fragile glass body begun to splinter and crack,
As a bright light begun well up inside.
In a brilliant display, the puppet miraculously,
Grew her own pair of feathered pride.
Glass clinked and clattered against the wooden stage,
As the once-puppet tore through the veil,
And set sail to the outside world.
Far and high, she flapped her wings
Adorned in laces of many colors.
The outside world was so full with color,
So filled with happiness and love,
That not once had she regret
Leaving the life she had lived before.
The world was not as it seemed,
But, so high up in the air,
And so far away, it was too late.
The sky turned flames of wicked hellfire
As the clouds turned to ash.
All around her, the world begun
To burn and crash
In a cascade of death and decay.
Amidst her panicked flight,
Her poor wings turned to dust.
In a blur of red and black,
Her fall from grace was a pity sight.
Among the fallen willows she now lie,
Crimson nectar and orange crackles,
And smothering dust filling her lungs.
“We tried to warn you. We told you you’d break. You’re going to suffer. Help is too late,”
Quipped a familiar voice.
“What’d we tell you? Weak and frail, you’d burn in hell!”
Quipped another.
“Burn in hell, you say? If I’m to burn in hell, you’ll suffer the same fate.”
She apprised with a wicked smile.
“Weak and frail, you’ll all burn in hell.”