In the light of the moon, porcelain skin gleams,

Eyes beaded, features stitched, unmoving it seems.

Silent I stand, with no voice to share,

No heart to feel, in the puppeteer's lair.

Bright strings pull at my delicate limbs,

Twisting and turning, to my master's whims.

A captive of fate, a prisoner of will,

A soulless vessel, forever still.

In the symphony of shadows, I long to break free,

To find who I am, to find the real me.