marionette

jumps and twirls ring so hollow,

her strings of control twirled
in the numb fingers of sorrow.
two flicks raising to pointe
and entangled strings force her pirouette.
if I look hard enough, there's beauty I suppose -
the cold, impassioned, stoic kind.
the beauty you find in apathy
the beauty you find in mechanisms of cars
the beauty you find in puppets
the beauty of numbness.
dancing to the tunes, but not dancing 
but merely descending and lifting 
and taking three steps towards
before bowing before the audience
but not because of the audience, 
but because those strings told you so.
she smiles but for courtesy
for courtesy's sake she cries.
such a lovely farce,
such a graceful show for herself 
and for all.
sculpture so magnificent
no one sees her chip away.
look! yet another piece chips away
as she strangles in her strings.
her sorrow strangles her till physical perfunctory quietus.
And quietus is what all shall remain of her
alongside her magnificent performance,
the show of a lifetime.

– mritha