The Hand Above The Shadow

The Hand Above The Shadow

A great hand hangs above the figure,

Quiet, patient, and unseen.

Threads descend through empty air,

Resting on a bowed head.

The body moves, but slowly,

Like a thought that is not its own.

Every step slightly hesitant,

Every motion gently steered.

How many live beneath such hands,

Bent by power they cannot see?

Believing the road is chosen,

While another draws the map.

A shadow can become a cage,

Even without iron bars.

For control rarely shouts aloud,

It whispers until obedience grows.

The puppet does not always know,

The moment the strings appeared.

Sometimes they arrive as comfort,

Sometimes disguised as care.

But the human spirit remembers,

Somewhere deep in its quiet core.

That it was not made for strings,

Nor shaped for silent command.

One brave moment is enough,

One hand reaching for the thread.

One refusal to bow again,

And the cords begin to loosen.

Then the figure slowly rises,

Straightening against the sky.

And the shadow learns at last,

A soul was never meant to kneel.

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