In the silence of the bitter night,
A puppeted son, entwined in fright.
With twisted joy, she pulls the strings,
Toying with fate as her puppet sings.
A dance of shadows, a malevolent art,
A mother's love tearing him apart.
In the cold embrace of winter's grace,
She orchestrates the final, chilling chase.
Her laughter echoes through the frost,
A puppeteer's delight, no matter the cost.
The son, a marionette in the icy dance,
Led by the strings of her callous trance.
As the winter winds weave a cruel song,
She guides him to where shadows belong.
No warmth in her heart, no mercy shown,
A puppeted son left cold and alone.
In the tapestry of shadows, a tale unfolds,
A loveless saga, where bitterness holds.
The puppeted son, a victim of art,
Frozen by the strings of a mother's heart.
