He owns the stage. His feet bounce off the wooden floor; he moves systematically, creating rhythmic sounds. Though they’re in no specific pattern, every movement feels purposeful.
His arms swing by his side. His voice captivates a room full of curious eyes. He acts, taps, and sings. They clap, cheer, and laugh.
“I’m doing great,” he tells himself as he entertains. “Everything is falling into place.”
He throws his arms up as he speaks of chivalry,
“And Justice was rescued by the cavalry!”
He steps ahead when the crowds go silent
and his words rule the stage like a tyrant.
He moves effortlessly and illustrates,
and speaks eloquently to persuade;
sharing stories that stem from fantasy
as he pushes against the force of gravity.
Is it clever or wicked to fabricate?
He speaks of deeds, both good and bad,
Of nobles and women who went mad
“A beautiful girl fell from the heavens
after playing in fire with the devils!
Divine Justice! Fear God’s Wrath!”
He thinks to himself as he delivers:
“I’m a storyteller. I’m a performer.
The master of dramatic dialogue;
emperor of a kingdom of improvise.
Who’d challenge Me in this matter?!”
He puts on his armor and brings to life
duels that fed past appetites for strife.
He digs up Ghost stories and hooks
children ignorant of ancient books.
He gestures! He stumbles! Falls apart! And cries!
Naming heroes and villains,
and setting aside witches from good Christians!
How do you bid against that?
He is clueless about the process, yet he remains confident
and wonders sometimes if God gave him these talents:
to travel through time with ease, and seduce with speech.
“I, the divine!” He declares. “Cannot be harmed!”
He falls passionately – his fists kissing the floor.
A hand cracks. The crowd gasps. He loses control.
He’s shaken when he sees it’s not a broken bone.
Wooden fibers peak through his cracked hand.
For the first time, he sees. He is not God’s prophet,
nor his creation.
“Get another!” Shocked. He looks up.
“I’m hurt, but I’m not disposable…
I entertained you! I sang and danced!
Didn’t you admire me? Didn’t you clap?”
“I’m hurt, but I’m not unlovable…
I moved as you wanted! I thought as you did!
“God, why did you have to tear down this façade?
Am I not human? I cannot accept this reality!
Why, oh, why, do they stare?!”
He looks down at the strings attached to his feet.
And up to a grin filled with malicious intent.
“What does this mean? What’s this demonic shine?”
Meet your master, a voice says. And, the puppet falls again.
“All this time, was I but a victim of Slavery?
I thought these words were mine?”
“Surely, my master will keep me.
I’ve been obedient. I’ve no mind.
Surely, he will keep me…”
But, just as he thought he’d be spared, he saw old dolls behind the stage.
One had scratches across its face, and another’s strings lost their strength.
One’s paint faded away, and the last was worn out from all the plays.
The little puppet did not know that he was there just for the show.
And, he left behind the dolls who tried to loosen the devil’s hold.
He walked blindly into the palms of his king,
who played him like a fool ‘cause he didn’t question a thing.
Little did he know that he isn’t God’s favorite, he’s just a mindless marionette.