This March

The days go marching into the sunset
At a break-neck, dizzying speed
While each doldrum step is done by
A clumsy marionette in slow motion.
When did I presume that I moved the strings?
Or are the strings set in motion on their own
By choices made years ago with foggy eyes?
But being hooked by these herky-jerky issues
Doesn't slow down this march into the sunset.

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