Puppeteer

No longer will I be controlled.

Tired of this dreary existence
Doomed to walk on clay below
I grow wing constructs of my master plan
And rise to the occasion
Reaching heights gleaming with glory
From which I have seen many fall
Never to be the stringed fool
I soar ever higher
Till I can reach out my arms
And feel the tug at every puppet below
On my finger tips, only to realize...

I pull my own strings.

Reviews

[signed forever]

Strong line breaks, vivid images. Yes, I do believe this poem can be consider 'awesome quality' :) Very well done!