The Marionette

An old, yellowed photograph hangs over the cliff of memory

The ring mark on my middle finger: was it love or pain?

Who between you and me can see what the future holds?

My vision begins to blur

You drew a mirage for me

Like a marionette, I let you pull my strings

I thought happiness was already in my right hand

But like a beam of light, it vanished in the blink of an eye

Years later, we meet again on the street

But I see you holding her hand

Even the passersby laugh at me: a marionette with cut strings, what do I have left?

The story is over, and I wait alone where I stood

Even the passersby laugh at me: a marionette with cut strings, what do I have left?

The story is over, and I wait alone where I stood

This novel and its characters are entirely fictional. Any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental. Do not imitate.