“For you,” he whispers his last
and cuts his own string,
plunging into the abyss,
so yours may remain intact.

Yet you are not intact,
hanging still among your fellow marionettes.
They dance on air, so unaware
of the deathly depths beneath them.

Your gaze never leaves that Black,
the maw that always hungers,
and you can't help but wonder
how his soul would have tasted.

As time passes, others fall
for no one's line can hold forever.
You tug and pull 'till your hands bleed,
but strength was his forté.

With age comes stillness.
You no longer move just to fray the thread.
Still, the support steadily weakens.
“For you,” you whisper at last.