The spool of thread runs through his fingers
The telephone wires slack and taut
He remembers kites flown in yesteryear
Scissors ready to cut the bonds
That tether flights to earth
The ropes knot tight on foolish limbs
That rise and fall to others whims
The mercenaries fight but not alone
Their guns held high with clear nylon
The ropes catch fire and turn to fuses
Burnt puppets don’t have many uses.
wordcoaster 