Under the torn strings of destiny,
We dangle and sway at every gust.
Mindless and dull, head cracked and empty,
Chests heavy from guilt, pouts frozen from disgust.
And still we dangle, still we sway,
Broken and left to rot, awaiting to be free,
Only to be greeted by sweet irony,
Arms wide open, humbled by decay.
To and fro we go,
Puppets of woe.
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