The Hub

Around the central Hub the figures dance and toil,
like Puppets bound to an ever-rotating spindle
They do not understand the Hub,
only the strings that twitch their limbs
They are preoccupied with the dance,
and the bright colours that flow
Beneath their feet like ribbons

They mourn but briefly when the strings are cut
And continue their merry dance.

What other choice do they have?
The strings are all but invisible,
and the colours of the hub dazzle
and blind them with their beauty

The beauty distracts them from the twitching figures
whose grip on the hub has been lost
No longer connected to the motion of colours,
they labour perpetually in a half-state
They think they are happy,
but the strong healthy puppets can only pity them

Some are connected by only a few wires;
tangled survivors of the struggle to remain connected
They are worse than the twitching paralytics
Lurching around the hub, their eyes bulge at the scene
The others grow uncomfortable in their presence
Sometimes a lone dancer will take the initiative
and cut the remaining strings,
propelling the deviant into the rapidly expanding pile
Of paralysed, twitching dolls

Occasionally, one of these lone initiators will find their dance increasing in its intensity
Whether voluntary or at the will of the hub,
the dancer spirals through the kaleidoscope of colours
Into the hub itself
united with the source and the light and the dance
The others dance on; caught perpetually between the brilliant light
And twitching dark