Up a stairway to the stars,
sitting high atop the sky,
lies alone a broken garden,
with no sun, nor moon, nor life.
If you take a peak inside,
looking close among the grass,
you will find a broken plaything,
left alone, forgotten, lost.
Should you pick it from the ground,
softness gone so long ago,
light its underside you’ll notice
full of memories of its own.
A bright spark may light its life,
newfound will to ignite its hope,
and desire to face forward,
come down water, snow or stones.
But this place nobody knows,
and this puppet’s fate won’t change,
No bright light for the tomorrow.
Not a smile upon its soul.
Life is nothing but a sigh 