The Intangible Puppeteer

I have come to this precipice time and time again.

Heart, mind, and soul alike, 

And so, once more, I peer down

Into the accursed subliminal chasm. 

And from its maw, ever so faintly, a lullaby creeps forth. 

The mind resists, the soul rages, 

And yet inevitability strikes into the heart. 

Oblivion itself is contemplated for but a moment, 

And yet I must press on. 

I know the rocks well. 

The crevasses, creases, outcroppings, 

Every jagged, threatening edge, 

Thrusting outwards to ward against intrusion, 

Yet fit perfectly against the palms of my hand. 

A feigned welcome, a false pleasure, 

Designed only to facilitate the descent below. 

And at the bottom I know I shall meet him, 

As we have done so many times before.

An impossible man garbed in silky dark, 

The Intangible Puppeteer. 

He is seated as I enter his sight, 

And he rises without a sound. 

Mouthless, earless, yet eyes burning with ferocity, 

For there is nothing left to say between us. 

Slowly, methodically, he approaches, 

Like a serpent encircling its prey. 

And I, stranded, alone, cannot help but wonder, 

If the impossible creature before me feels any pleasure in this, 

Or if it is but a role he too must play. 

Up above thrums the unfathomable constellation, 

Furtive, fitful, chaotic, 

That heavenly elevation, that blessed sight. 

A furious vortex of color and sound

Where the light lingers just long enough 

To kiss the swirling shade.

Impregnated with what might be, 

Churned forcefully by what is. 

Incomprehensible, inaudible, unreachable, 

By any hand but his. 

His spindly limbs reach upwards, groping for his prize, 

One turns to two, two to ten.

The sky falls to eclipse, 

And the constellation now a victim of theft, 

A thousand crimes committed all at once, 

Until it thrums no longer. 

Reality snuffed in the blink of an eye, and now the arms withdraw,

Descending back to return into the loving care,

of the Intangible Puppeteer. 

Each hand tightly clutches its prize, 

A hollow gray facsimile of what prances in the day above, 

A grotesque mockery of the finest clay. 

A million hands toil upon a thousand lumps, 

Pressing, kneading, rolling, spinning, 

If any joy the Puppeteer takes in his work, I know not, 

For while his hands toil, his eyes merely stare. 

HIs task is complete, and now arranged before me, 

A series of hollow, ugly shells. 

This one bears the face of my father, 

That one, once a friend. 

Another reminds me of a loved one now lost, 

And yet another, a hated enemy. 

The list continues, the line lengthens, the shells surround, 

All bearing the slightest familiarity, 

Yet unrecognizable all the same. 

Their faces contorted with malice, anger, 

And instill in my heart a correspondent passion.

They speak lies that in the depths of my soul I fear 

Dwell in the land of truth. 

Their words designed to be as sharp as any blade, 

Made sharper still by the love I used afford them.

The land upon which we stand bubbles and shifts, 

Grass, stone, wood alike all demanding to be born. 

The patterns come as no surprise, 

As they are rearranged into a childhood home. 

The scene is set, a dull grey illuminates us,

Man and shade alike, 

From the back of each shell sits a grotesque tendril, 

All leading back to him. 

Imperfect copies, yet moving with terrible authenticity, 

For their master, who spies me still, 

Has observed me quite studiously. 

His hands are crossed, his eyes fixed upon the stage, 

Still speechless, still without emotion, 

Yet his silent commands ring loudest throughout the maw. 

The shells play their roles perfectly, 

They make their cuts into my flesh and soul,

And, with each passing sliver of eternity, 

I hate them all the more. 

I lash out with what strength I have, to shatter them, to be free,

And yet, fluid is the dark that made them, 

And, like water, they dodge me. 

The show continues; I cannot stop it,

For I am no mere audience, 

The Puppeteer has gone through so much trouble now, 

To make his main star me. 

Be still, I command the heart, 

In truth, more of a plea. 

We’ve been here before, We’ll be here again, 

And between it, we shall not be broken, 

By the Intangible Puppeteer.

Consciousness is made a prison now, 

Though it thrashes to be free. 

Eventually, the constellation takes pity

And glows with intensity. 

The shells melt before the mind’s eye, 

Yet, somewhere deep in the heart, they remain. 

With lofty hands I am slowly lifted, 

His eyes follow me as I go, 

And, without a word, he returns to his seat, 

His show is done for now.

What is rushes in to replace what might be, 

And the constellation reaches out in embrace.

The world is painted with new colors now, 

That I strained to remember in the maw. 

I lay still for a while longer, 

And allow the artist time to do his work, 

In truth, I have no choice, 

As the inky tendrils still bind. 

They will be gone soon, as they always are, 

But, for now, their intention is to remind, 

Wrapped around wrist and ankle, 

They whisper of what waits below. 

They linger for but a few moments longer before they recede, 

They lick the scars as they go, 

And leave behind but one gift unwanted;

A hated promise of their return. 

I thrust their words from my mind, 

I rise into the constellation of light. 

A shell, no longer a shell, greets me with a smile, 

All trace of malice gone. 

And yet, as I embrace it as warmly as I can, 

The heart recoils in fear, 

For it recalls the gruesome dance it performed,

While tethered to the Intangible Puppeteer.