The Puppet Violonist

He played the violin in front of the fire
Like a puppet he performed, often jumping on fire
As if trying to let the fire burn the threads
Fool! Fool! The threads are born from within.
Whats born from within, can it be burnt by that fire I said
With wide eyes, he smiled and danced around the fire
The threads coming from inside his heart
The same threads are on his violin
The same hanging above him and making him play and dance
Bones from his body forming the violin
Creating a melody born from the despair inside his mind

Oh the dead bones dance, the fire reaching heavens
The dead bones dance holding their rotting hearts
Who is that I wondered? His music so calm, so deep
As if talking to my heart from the other side of the fire
Observe carefully, the threads from his heart extend
Extend everywhere his music dances
Latching onto the dead bones, making them dance
Oh look at the skies, its their souls
It looks as if they are trying to reach the rotting hearts
Or are they even souls? Or just figments of memories

Are the threads controlling him?
Is he controlling them with his threads? Or is it the music
Why would the hearts be left rotting while the body decayed?
Were the dead bones protecting the heart for a reason?
Oh why does it feel hotter? Darker? Lighter?
Ha.. Ha.. You caught me, dint you? Oh violinist
You caught me long back. It was a ceremony, a ceremony to allow me
Allow me into the halls of the forgotten bones
I was dancing all along!