Puppet Culmination

"We, the puppet world of this desolate landscape, pledge allegiance to our every fear, every horror that has led us to our simple destinations."
Walk the line, little puppet. Puppet master will take care of you.
Walk until your compliant little heart stops.
Until you find yourself trapped in a hole,
Looking out of the grave you dug for yourself.
All of your little glitches and dilemmas
Pouring in as that black, worm-infested soil.
And you try to dig yourself out,
But you realize you're digging the wrong way.
You're digging circles, zig-zags, mazes.
You're digging everywhere,
everywhere but up.
Up and out.
Once every ounce of energy in your mediocre muscles has seeped out,
You stop, and sit.
"I choose acceptance and I accept my choice," the puppet says.
Oh, you wide-eyed creature.
You're too easy.
You're just a sitting duck,
a bulls eye in the target market,
applying make-up in the driver's seat,
masking your little insecurities
in Lite Beige and Coral.
The radio is on.
"And we're back with a chart-topper for you, this one's a hit!"
You have the volume up all the way to hide your self-proclaimed vile voice.
Between point A and point B, the scenery's real nice,
And you pretend to care, but it's real damn hard.
The news anchor and her crew on the side of the road
are filming some bullshit, tedious story on golf courses.
And as the cars rush by,
the news anchor imagines every different scenario that could take place with a car crash.
A sideswiped school bus, a spontaneous explosion of a full gas tank.
She needs some tragedy points to get those ratings to soar.
Planes crashing into sinking ships.
Anything to fulfill her wishful fantasies.
You drive by the park with all the tiny schoolchildren dancing around their totem pole playground.
You imagine them in executive positions stabbing their co-employees in the back.
You imagine their innocent eyes burning with procreating ambition.
The same procreating ambition their mothers and fathers have.
The mothers and fathers that have spent the last decade of their lives living in a 9-5 world.
And they're just dying to full that vacant heavenly position
that seems to be perpetually floating above reach.
Anything to feed those starving bank accounts.
You smirk and ride on.
You have a plane to catch, but you need to squeeze in a session with the priest.
A quick stop at the drive-thru confessional does the job.
"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. I have to repent. I have to redeem myself of these sins."
"Alright, get on with it, what ungodliness have you caused?"
"I don't share, I eat too much, I'm too proud of myself, I'm jealous of my neighbor, I get angry, I'm too lazy, and I long for sexual satisfaction. And this was all in the last week."
"You have repented, and I will forgive. That will be $9.99. Please pull up to the next window."
Behind you, a line of sinners
in their luxurious sedans
racing, rushing to catch the next plane, the next bus, the next ferry across the river Styx
just from point A to point B.
But there's a house of prayer at every junction.
There is no need to worry.
When they get home, they sit in their cells, drinking the same holy water the were drenched with at mass.
Bottled holy water, plain tap water, flavor enhanced water, boiled, pasteurized water. Simple. Water.
And you realize you've missed your plane.
Point A to point B, stifled.
With your puppet strings attached, you ride on to your simple destination.
Ride on, silly puppet, ride on.