Deep in the woods where the wild winds moan,
Stands a house made of splintered bone.
Windows like eyes, hollow and wide,
Watching the path where lost souls reside.
A whisper drifts through the moonlit trees,
Carried aloft by a ghostly breeze.
A voice like silk, so sweet, so thin—
“Come inside, let the show begin.”
The door swings wide with a creak and a groan,
Revealing a stage of polished stone.
Candles flicker in chandeliers,
Casting shadows like puppeteer’s tears.
On velvet strings, they sway and dance,
Bound by the spell of a hollow trance.
Lifeless eyes and porcelain skin,
Grinning wide as the play begins.
A gentleman steps from the crimson veil,
Dressed in a coat of moth-bitten pale.
His fingers twitch, his gaze unblinks,
“One more puppet,” he softly thinks.
You try to run, but your feet stay still,
Captured fast by the Puppetmaster’s will.
Invisible hands pull tight, pull strong,
And suddenly, you dance along.
Your breath is stolen, your voice is gone,
Your limbs obey his whispered song.
Bound by silk and cursed to stay,
A marionette till your bones decay.
So if you wander near that place,
Turn away—don’t tempt your fate.
For once you hear the Puppet sing,
You’ll never escape the master’s strings.