Beautiful, Beautiful...

There once was a wise old craftsman, who knew more than he let on. He lived and worked in a plain, insignificant little cottage that was nestled in the middle of nowhere; shrouded by trees, ensuring that any soul lucky enough to happen upon it would never find it again.

It was here, in the beginning of dawn through the darkness of night that he made a beautiful, beautiful puppet. He used the softest, palest maple that she could have been porcelain. He selected the finest red horse hairs to cover her head, a dress of elegant peacock feathers and simple ballet slippers to cover her feet. And as he carefully painted her delicate features with a steady hand, she smiled at him.

Time flowed on and the craftsman continued working, but now he had his beautiful, beautiful puppet to dance for him. He was happy as he watched her graceful movements echo the peaceful serenity of their hidden world. But the dancer grew restless. She looked up at him and pleaded, remove these strings that restrain me! Give me wings to fly! But the wise old man shook his head and smiled. But my dear, you do not need wings, and as she danced on the tabletop, he lifted her up, I can make you fly.

But still, she was dissatisfied. So one day, when the craftsman had left to gather more supplies, she carefully made her way to the fireplace, the blazing flames reflecting in her beautiful, beautiful eyes. Swiftly, impatiently, she scooped up an armful of coals and threw them on the strings trailing behind her. Her hands were blackened and burnt, but still she smiled as the flames grew and ate away at her captivity. When finally the strings were severed, she sang with happiness, completely oblivious to the ever growing fire. Freedom! So very happy was she, she could not move as the blaze crawled up the strings, latching onto her. And even as she burned, Freedom! she cried, Freedom! It consumed her mind and soul as the flames consumed her body.

And when the craftsman returned and saw what had become of his precious creation, he knelt on the floor and wept over her beautiful, beautiful ashes.

Tell me, my dear,
Was it worth it?
Your strings now broken
Your body now scorched
You say you are free now
But free from what?
Did you escape,
Shatter your shackles?
Or sever your lifeline,
Now enslaved to ashes.