Puppet

My arms grow tired
Yet the battle rages on
What am I to do?
Lifted to the sky the nations prevail
Heavy weights to my sides
We fall
Responsibility has made an old man of me
They grumble and curse
They whisper plots to have me killed
They have no use for me, looking forward to the day
The cow brings forgetfulness and madness and lust
Depravity and apathy
Still my arms point to the heavens
Still out enemies fall

My arms grow tired
I can no longer hold them up
Useless limbs, they drop
And I look to the battlefield
Blood runs in streams
Silence lost to screams
But no longer do our men prevail
They join their women, their children
Beaten down with rocks and clubs
Primitive knives and swords
I feel throbbing in my wrists and my shoulders burn
The blood flows down into each limb and makes them even heavier
But what am I to do?

Come, my brother
Heed my call, strong companion
Be my strength in this cruel time
Hold my hands, both of you
Like dead tree limbs raise them
Hold them fast and hold them long
For the battle has not ended
Hoist my dead arms high until our enemies fall
Until the last bone is broken
Until there is no one left to boast

Let our people look to the mountain
To see the miraculous sight
The weathered prophet, the withered puppet
Leaning on the rock

Let them recover in my shadow as the sun sets
Let them look up to see how a broken man has saved them

My arms grow tired
Suspended
It won't be too long now
I will become a serpent coiled around a staff