The Puppet King

All my actions are my own. My thoughts are all mine too. Every thing I say or do, behavior must attone. These wooden hands of my pure will do move in constant, 'wildered cry. In emptiness, my motives dry like airy deeds are standing still. Am I loved, held in these arms? That keep me safe from wrong; their breathing sets my heart to long for freedom held from harm. Those hands of makar keep me still, a doll that dreams of fate. If I had chance to dwell on hate, would I strike the one who made me see? Nor would I fight for destiny, or cut these strings of dance: when troubles resume their latent prance, with deftness, and agility. Caught by unreproving looks the one who seeks control of me, the people ne'er will let me free. My tortured soul in potent books before anonymity? Oh, history's symmetry. Is it pride foretelling glory, or vengeance bleeding justice; let the truth set you free.