The puppets sit quietly on their shelves,
waiting for nightfall and reactivation.
I look around in horror,
because I’m sitting here too,
not a puppet,
but beside me there are two.
I call for help,
but nobody can hear me.
Nobody can hear me because I’m a puppet too.
When evening arrives they gather on the floor,
dancing spasmodically,
no strings attached,
moving in unison,
a terrifying cult.
I pull my puppet knees up,
bent to protect me.
I close my eyes,
plug my ears,
waiting to be bought.
WAST WRTNG 