The Marionette

As the puppet will dance her single dance,
 I will laugh with joy at the graphic clown,
But I think I know her secret balance:
 Straight around is the glory and power,
And thankful is she for her fleeting hour.
 Unbreathable word is each moment’s stance –
In all directions appears a white flower.
 Pretension she mocks, dressed in hand-me-down,
And celebrates nothing with smile or frown –
 O Puppeteer, keep your love’s endurance!

After the show when her circle has died,
 Rarely, if ever, have onlookers cried.
My reason I keep when nothing seems right –
 I hold, when self-lost, a line of prayer tight.