Poem By Sara Turner
Someone pulls the strings,
We are but puppets created for a play,
Made to dance or walk or fall,
For the puppet masters whim,
Who writes my lines?
Choosing the characters that I play?
Can it be I have a choice,
To cut the strings and walk away?
It it then I'll know the secret?
Understand who controls the fates?
That I will be taken from this stage
and saved for another play?
Will I ever know the answer
to make the knowledge my joy?
Or am I paying for an indiscretion
a failure from another scene?
Do we keep repeating and rehersing our lines
Until we get it right?
And for every error that mankind makes
does the puppetmaster start anew?
The treadmill that we walk
Monuments which we sometimes pass
Several times in rememberance
De ja vous of a tomorrow that we've already played.