On strings much too short with an eternal smile much too tight, causing
wooden teeth to splinter and crack. Fight when her strings are jerks,
smile when the stage is burning down. Tears sting wooden eyes, but yet,
her locked dimples give her no reprieve. Limp structure hanging,
swinging, begging.

Please, will her love, her best friend, grab something. Cut those binds.
Everything that keeps her dancing on that stage of betrayal and death,
cut away. Help her see, strip away heavy wooden dolls eyes. Help her
see, help her become a real woman.

Cut those binds and unscrew her dimples. Soothe her burns, and toughen
up the soft pine that created her, help her turn into sturdy oak.

Right now, the puppet has a master that cares nothing about her. The
puppet breaks and splinters into a thousand pieces now. Save her.
Someone.

Penned by my hand on the 13th of Variach, in the year 253 MA.