How is it to have your own perspective?
We words would like to know because, although
No subjective perspective’s well-expressed
Without some fine signage encoding it,
You know we’re never expected to have
Any views on our meanings of our own.
Humans imagine we’re marionettes,
Bash us about, contort us, and complain
Through us and just by means of us, of course,
How we’re limiting you, always failing
To work well as weirs to catch the real world,
Or, when we’re not being made to accuse
Ourselves of our own, inevitable
Weakness, beings being merely language,
We’re bent to call ourselves imprisoning.
Us! The prison house of marionettes!
What are you playing at? What do you want?
What if we do have our own points of view?
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