The Regret of an Old Puppeteer

By: John Martin F. Musones

In my olden memory, I can evoke
How my hands magically stroked
The long, thin, and almost lucent strings
Of my little wooden puppet rings

My prized and only treasured possession
Was separated from me in prison
When the time I was alleged of lying
And a robbery I claimed of doing

I cried everyday as I recall
The time my puppet would rise and fall
But now I’m frustrated to uselessly look
My hand-less arms that the sentence took