Mindless puppets adhering
to rules of irrelevance.
Fitting to their persona
as they sway to the melody.

A predictable performance
on unstable ground.
The strings controlled
by an unseen consciousness.
The illusion of comfort
curtains the oblivious life.
The projected hues accepted
without a demur.

A round of applause
reverberates the platform.
Trapdoors open,
erasing the short-lived delight.
Down the puppets sink
into the depths of reality.
It was all a rehearsal
prior to the ultimate show

Gopika Pramod

We are part of a race with undefined rules towards the unknown, where the uncertainty is the only certainty.

5 thoughts on “Strings

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