A book of poems, songs, and short stories .

Marrionette's dream

I remember,
the sound of music:
the majestic and upbeat tunes
that used to fill the room.
Now an eerie silence falls.
These once festive halls
feel more like a tomb.
I remember,
light from above,
and the crimson curtains which I loved.
Light that bore down on me
as the curtains drew wide.
The curtains
now are tattered, torn, and faded.
And the light
now flickering,
will soon go out for good.
I remember,
many different voices:
voices of children, voices of women, voices of men,
voices of clapping, voices of laughing,
voices of awe, and voices of crying.
Now voices haunt these walls they once filled.
I remember,
elegant clothes:
shoes, makeup, corsets, jewelry,
shirts, skirts, and dresses
of every color and every design --
whatever I needed to shine.
Now my clothes hang tattered,
my makeup is smudged and faded,
and spiders crawl through my hair, which is matted.
I remember
a lot of faces:
old and young, women and men;
none were the same, but all were filled with expressions.
Now the faces I once knew so well
seem like a dream.
I remember dancing,
swaying, gliding,
twirling, spinning,
leaping, jumping,
never missing a beat,
always landing on my feet.
Now I cannot dance, I cannot move.
I just stand there with nothing to do.
Music, light, voices, clothes, faces, and dancing --
things of my past that I remember,
now seem like a bygone era.
Why don't I leave this tragic place?
Well, I would, but I'm held in place,
stuck in this stance in which I was left.
Strings that once gave me the freedom to dance
are tangled and mangled in a mess.
The cross brace that a master once used
to conduct my actions
lay above my stage,
casting ashy shadows onto the floor.
And my stage,
oh my beautiful hand-made stage,
now lays covered in cobwebs and spiders,
buried in an inch of dust.
Its curtains are torn and tattered.
All the good it brought, forgotten.
All the joy I conveyed, forgotten.
All I can do is stand in my stance and dream.
What do I dream of?
I dream of lavender fields, sapphire swans,
and ponds filled with lotus.
But most of all, I dream of dancing once again.
I long to hear the crowd applaud aloud,
To hear the music and the voices,
to see the faces I once knew,
to feel the spotlight on me,
to be garbed in elegant clothes, and
to see my master conducting my dance
with the strings flowing free instead of an entangled mess.
I wish that someone would spare me
this never-ending torture.
How I wish someone would cut me loose.
But what am I without a master,
Without my audience?
Nevermind, it's not like I can change my fate.
After all, I'm just a marionette, a puppet on strings.