We are straw puppets dancing in a fire,
We are marionettes chanting on a wire,
Round and round we go, in frenzied flashes,
Mind and heart at war, a thousand clashes,
Icarus of the heart, rising so high,
Sisyphean fools of the kind that try,
Until we burn our wings, until we tire,
Building and, with our hand, lighting the pyre
On which we repose and evermore lie
Disappearing with the faintest sigh
Into the deep night, small pile of ashes;
The flames have consumed our deepest gashes.
A funeral for the living.