The Puppeteer.(Revised).

These puppets make me doubt my own true past.
They write the songs that I discreetly wrote.
They dance the dances I adroitly danced.
These puppets try to make me disappear,
Hide me behind thick sheets, or plywood walls.
They lie out loud about who pulls their strings,
Pretending they are not the puppets that they are,
Pretending that my words are truly theirs.
But at night when I shut out the wintry moon
With curtains that my mother brought from China,
I pack these puppets into cardboard boxes,
And fold their theatre underneath my bed.
I can now sleep like a child, safe in my certainties,
And not be fooled by what the world believes.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter. 
December 28th. 2018.