Copyright © Priya Florence Shah
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The puppet master
pulls the strings,
A web of lies
their whispers bring.
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A guise of counsel,
a cunning art,
To twist the truth,
to tear apart.
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With sly intent,
they bait the line,
Recording tales,
recasting time.
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A mirror dark,
a skewed display,
Where shadows mock
the light of day.
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But masks will slip,
and strings will fray,
The truth will rise,
it finds its way.
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For those who
scheme to fabricate,
Will face the world
they helped create.
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