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Aug 28, 2010

1 The Puppet: poem

I'm a branch that denies the tree,
apart yet can never be, can never be.

I grow in loneliness, that I bear,
old and withered, the heaven is all I can share.

I look up, I look down,
swallowed up by the shadows upon the ground, upon the ground.

Oh, how I wish, I could wonder away,
be hacked down and turned into a man with legs

A man assembled from the wooden blocks, from a carpenters hand,
into a puppet that can love and dance, from my strings, from my strings.

Then, to be accepted into a new tree, become a new branch,
have a new family that would accept me, for me.

One, I could talk to with all my heart, be apart of,
rely on as my world destroys around me, around me.

Those sleepy nights upon my bed, next-store to the ones I love,
no longer who I was, with words and legs, ready to dance.