I can’t ignore the puppet strings,
the wire that connects the wood to blood.
I can’t forget the man who sings
such lonely ballads, boots all caked in mud.
I cannot feel the empathy
with hordes who trundle daily through the street.
I cannot muster sympathy
for those who battle for the better seat.
The puppet show goes on all day.
The plot is never-ending.
The heartsung tunes just waft away,
into the blue skies wending.
The milling crowds in business shrouds
may dwindle down by night.
But, come the dark, like stormy clouds,
they’re primed for fight or flight.