I feel the strings attached to my limbs;
Begging, pleading for me to give in.
“You’ll feel better if you give in”
They whisper in my ears, much to my chagrin.
But maybe when their judgment comes
At the hand of the one above;
I will be freed.

But there is no one above
No pretty partridge;
No savior dove
To be free would be to die
So for now I guess I’ll just sit and
Cry.

When they tug my strings
I move to their dance.
And if they force me down
I’ll kick I’ll struggle
Like a fly in their web,
And just like the spider
They’ll eat me alive
Because

With no one above,
In the gleaming temple
Lies a cold dead dove
Killed by the hands
That puppeteer my strings.

But to be free would be to die,
So again I sit here and cry.