is it exile
if he walks into the desert
of his own accord

and if the words he sings
about the honeyed community
are salt water across a cut tongue
does he believe

is the puppet alive
by virtue of the hands
that pull the soul’s strings
does life flow through
to the ones outside
not stopping along the way
to spark a little light
behind the dull clay eyes

maybe he’s just the tin can
at the end of an eternal cord
feeling vibrations of another world
flowing through to this one
leaving him empty all the same