In the dance of love, a subtle game unfolds,
Where emotions are the pawns, and hearts are made to mold.
A masterful puppeteer, with strings so fine and strong,
Pulls the heartstrings, orchestrating a sorrowful song.

With whispered words, a gentle breeze that soothes the soul,
Or a careless comment, a dagger to the heart's control.
The manipulator weaves a web of guilt and shame,
A fragile balance of power, where love's a mere flame.

The victim, lost in the haze of emotional pain,
Searches for a lifeline, a beacon to guide them through the rain.
But the puppeteer's grip is tight, the strings expertly played,
As the heart is slowly drained, its beauty faded, its light betrayed.

In this toxic waltz, the music swirls, a maddening refrain,
Where love's a weapon, wielded to control, to possess, to enchain.
But still, the heart holds on, a glimmer of hope remains,
A chance to break free, to shatter the chains, to rise above the pain.

For in the shadows, a truth awaits, a light to set us free,
A realization that love's not a game, but a gift to you and me.
So let us beware the puppeteers, with hearts so cold and grey,
And choose instead the warmth of love, that heals, that frees, that stays.