Puppeteer

If I played a part
across screen or stage
My voice would be heard
by none through the age.

I’d scream out my lines
but the sound would rustle,
lost in the display
and crushed in the bustle.

I know the rounding thump
of ever beating hearts.
I am well aware the signs
of the end when it starts.

I’m my own puppeteer
without a story to endear.
All I’ve written
leaves little to revere.

I’ve played the rhythm
and struck it well off key.
To sing along or cry alone
seems all the same to me.

I’ve been there once or twice;
maybe a few times more.
I’ve rigged up my own strings
from flesh to inner core.