Marionette

Strings.
They make us dance.
Poised forever on the edge of falling, held suspended over destruction by thin strands of time.
Made to dance by time.
Made to float centimeters above the ground, almost.....almost touching.
Hung.
Lynched by dreams, crucified by thoughts--my very body provides the cross.
Forgive me, Father for I know not what I do.
Adrift.
Purposeless, directionless, at the will of uncaring time. Time holding the strings in a loose
grip too tight to breath through.
Strings.
I hang myself on all that I've done. Forgive me, Father, for I know not what I do.