Mangled Story Of Mishandled Marionettes
Mangled story of mishandled marionettes
On a masked planet floating in space,
we hear the cry of the joker, invoking justice.
“Is the doer identical with the reaper of his actions?
He is neither the same, nor a different one”.
Are these mutations or discontinuous transformations
from person to persona, leaps of consciousness
or a place where you cannot see yourself -
where you become a marionette or a silhouette
in the bent light of an engineered superficial
unknown cherry blossom blight?
Does our origin sing in the voice of the dead?
Do we have to know the masked night?
to meet the dread of earth’s distorted silhouette.
Do we have to stumble in the dark world?
of elusive winds in our hands
dying fires in the golden eye of our bellies
receding moistness of the earth in our hair
trembling polluted water in our breaths.
Are we dancing marionettes?
puppets on genetic strings
in the satire of innocent consciousness
controlled by vaccinations and rules
where no reflective thought is possible
and where our words are dying?
Are we each other’s food, each other’s prey -
what would the joker say?