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Fragments Of Frost And Fire - Episode 4 - STRINGS

 Strings

We enter this world as fallen puppets,
limbs sprawled across the stage of existence—
no strings to lift us skyward,
no master's hand to guide our dance.

A black and white photograph of a performer in an elaborate costume resembling a marionette puppet. The person is positioned on a wooden floor with multiple strings or ropes visible above them, creating the illusion of puppet strings. They wear a frilly, vintage-style dress with lace details and a matching bonnet or cap with ruffles. Their makeup appears theatrical with dramatic facial features. The performer is posed in a dynamic position - one arm raised upward grasping a string, the other extended to the side, with one leg extended and wearing what appears to be a ballet slipper or pointe shoe. The dramatic lighting against the dark background emphasizes the theatrical, puppet-like quality of the performance art piece.

Born frail and feeble,
we draw strength from those around us,
grasping at invisible threads
that promise to pull us upright,
to steady us as we move through the world.

The first string to attach, for the fortunate,
anchors in the heart of a loving mother—
silver-spun and strong as steel.
It lifts our chin, straightens our spine,
teaches us what it means to stand.

Then comes family,
bound by blood or bond—
the strings longer, more flexible,
but still supportive.

Friendship’s golden wire finds hold next:
laughter’s crimson cord,
the emerald thread of first love
that makes us leap and spin.

We gather strings like promises,
each one a reason to rise—
mentors who guide our gestures,
passions that animate our purpose.

For a while, we dance beautifully,
suspended in a web of care.
Every movement graceful,
every step supported.

But time is the cruelest puppet master.
Strings once strung tight fall slack,
some intentionally severed.
We stumble—
waiting for loose threads to pull taut,
or for new ones to lift us once more.

One by one, the strings grow thin:
a father’s voice fades to silence,
childhood friends drift out of reach.

Some cords snap without warning—
the sudden loss that drops us to our knees,
forcing us to relearn how to move
with fewer strings.

Others, we cut ourselves,
tired of being pulled
in directions that no longer serve
the dance we want to perform.

Sometimes we try to repair a connection—
a knot in the string,
a new anchor point—
but these seldom hold fast.

And sometimes,
desperate for support,
we grasp at strangers’ strings:
borrowed threads that jerk us sideways,
make us stumble,
make us fall.

The art is learning which strings to keep,
which ones to mend when they fray,
how to stand with grace
even when half our supports are gone.

We become our own puppet masters,
holding some strings in our own hands,
dancing not because we must,
but because we choose to move.

Some exist without strings—
nothing attached to them.
You see them: feeble and broken,
unable to stand.
Or tall and rigid,
their inflexibility the price of standing,
leaving them unable to dance.

In the end, the wisest puppets know:
 freedom isn’t having no strings—
 it’s choosing which connections
 deserve to lift us toward the light.

More Of My Poetry

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