[NicknamedBob]

Puppets Descending

We are but shadows of puppets,
Descending on strings from above,
From dimensions of will and of timelessness,
And at least one dimension of love.

The long, slow drop takes a lifetime,
But life isn’t what we had thought,
Here in the cave of our conscious,
In shadows we find what we’ve sought.

What we are perceiving as substance,
Is only the shadow poured down,
From an angel writhing in torment,
Descending on strings to the ground.

Expelled from a Presence of glory,
Compelled to a penance below,
The fuzzy outline of the shadow,
Gets sharper as we see it grow.

And the hazy outline of its future,
We see as an infancy here,
Where predictions of ending are valid,
As the shadow’s outline grows more clear.

A shadow of many dimensions,
With a substance and weight we perceive,
An illusion convincingly solid,
When the Light is extinguished, will leave.

Our soul doesn’t enter when we do,
From birth canals we call alive,
It falls, while we think we’re rising,
At the end of the trip it arrives.

And that’s when the puppet stops moving,
Having joined with its shadow below,
The delicate dance of descending,
Has made for a marvelous show.

NicknamedBob . . . . . . . August 6, 2008

[Soaring Feather]

Puppets Descending

Bob, I have read much of your writing. I think this is the best poem you have written since I began reading your writing.

The depth of this piece is amazing. The images you’ve painted are both light and airy, but deep, dark and mysterious.

Excellent piece of writing, thank you.