PyreWolfie

There was once a fearful puppet,
bound together by strings galore,
woven threads moving its smile,
its beguiling humanity,
through the social tango it had
seen before - seen, not understood,
camouflage from scrutiny endured.

Over time its strings grew too worn,
movement harder than it had been
before; one by one, loosened thread
strained and snapped, a tattered mirage,
rended shadow cast on the floor.
It seemed the puppet was no more,
but what remained was self restored.

Still, the Piper would need payment.
Years behind mask now broken meant
visage burned by the gentlest gaze,
focus fogged by swirling burnout,
feelings lost, trapped in labyrinth maze.
What's a forlorn puppet to do?
Why, become its own puppeteer!

It bound its feet and hands in rope,
fibers made from its melancholy.
Pain thus tethered summoned anger;
it threw itself on padded floor,
articulating rage against
all the times its mask emptied its
vital force, embalmed empty husk.

The once fearful puppet struggled,
primal dance of vengeance calling
forth its inner wolf, snarling, wild.
Soon our puppet-wolf freed itself,
knowing it would return often
on its journey to restored self,
sated for now but not for long.