Poem

The Puller of Gilded Strings

Tongue of manipulation,
Teeth of gold.
You set the stipulations,
Or at least that’s what you’re told.

Moth to the fire,
Conned to impoverished.
Success to the liar,
With precious metals untarnished.

Though you’re not of their ilk,
The rich accept your disguise.
With money, metal, silk,
You’ll escape to the skies.

It all twists as a coil,
A glittering cocoon.
But within it you will boil,
Under the light of the full moon.

So it’ll take its thread,
To weave its wings.
Seems you were the one led,
By The Puller of Gilded Strings.