They carved me from the oldest wood,
A puppet bound in fate, not good.
Each twisted string, a silent plea,
Yet none would ever set me free.

A painted smile, a hollow chest,
They pulled my limbs, they did their best.
But hands that grip too tight, too strong,
Will never hear a broken song.

I danced upon the crimson stage,
A prisoner trapped in quiet rage.
The master laughed, the crowd adored,
While I remained—enslaved, ignored.

But puppets learn, with time and pain,
That strings can break, that masks can wane.
And when the axe fell swift and bright,
They saw me move—without the might.

I tore the threads, I took the blade,
And in the dark, my wrath was made.
No master left, no hands remained—
Just splintered bones and names profaned.