My Strings

Dance in a helpless whirl
as if my brain were on marionette strings
guided by hands somewhere out of sight
dancing to his little songs.

Useless thoughts appear,
that perhaps I should stop moving
or maybe even stop breathing -
but bounces and twirls still come.

I looked up the other day
saw the twisted lip display
of his own dismay but determined effort
to keep the dance moving.

Around and about I go,
still hearing the song every day,
wishing more and more he'd cut me loose,
and let me fall limp on the floor.