"His Marionette"

With the pull of a string
A voice starts to sing;
A voice not my own -
No life to be shown

My beauty lies
In my beholder's eyes
As he looks to the skies
For inspiration on high:

The green of my eyes
From a river bed's reeds
The purple of my lips
From a butterfly's wings

The pink of my cheeks
From a rose as it buds,
The pale of my skin
From the moon up above

But the one feature that
My creator took care
To make sure was just right
Was my ebony hair . . .

Black as the coal that he burns to keep warm
Black as the sky when blanketed in a storm
Black as his daughter's ringlets so soft
Black as the kitten that stares from aloft . . .

Night after night from the top shelf I watch
As my puppeteer leads those around me
Across the stage as they dance and perform
Stories of wisdom and fantasy

Yet here I stay as a display to all
A beauty – his price to admire
But lonely I remain, waiting for my call to
Entertain the audiences – their imaginations inspire

For when my day shall come that I
Get to frolic across that open floor
Then my dreams – now reality
Shall touch my heart and let me smile once more.

?Sharon R. Whitaker