It’s freedom being more and more imbued in a shroud, a mist
Fog taking over it’s bodies controlling the strings that move its motives
It’s eyes lit with the passion of its controller
Its reactions to reality only getting slower and slower until it’s drained of self thought
The dreams ****** from the veins and built to preach their god’s gospel made by a man
The puppet is flushed of thought and color
The strings are cut and it falls to the ground with nothing to give to another
The fog moves away, off to its next victim.