Some Puppets Fly
Can you hear me?
Can you see me?
Sad, because the whine
belongs to some harpy, and
there never was a stranger bird
or a creature so hard to forget.
I am eyes abroad for those
who see all so they can learn little,
and wings for flightless ambition.
As they dictate movement across
these places of yours they'll never understand,
their hands never give away
the presence of their own strings,
suspending wooden forms on stages
too darkened to make out the blood.
Then comes crying out
a ghost-quiet call for an end
to justify means,
and it means: in my world
of shades of grey, static and distortion,
in among geometries I see those marked out,
and the white with which they glow cannot hope
to tell their own truths.
Lock, clearance, weapons free—
still unseen, I transform
a world beneath me. Conveniently,
plumes dissipate along with
errant second thoughts
or pause to question.
Onwards, onwards I glide
over land fertile with tears
sown with graceful arrogance.