Born without hooks to attach the strings,
learned to walk by flippity, flopping.
The puppeteer was dismayed,
placing me in the back of the closet.
Staying in there watching through
the cracked door, learning to mimic.
Hobbling out at night in the moonlight,
moving my arms and legs in an
elaborate dance to the music of silence.
All the puppets with hooks
now watched me as I moved, freely.
Unbound, vibrant pirouettes, bowing
when the sun finally came up
to the silent stares and stillness
of the bound.