I Write Poetry

The puppeteer smiles and with shaking hands takes the puppet from the box, he straightens the strings and stands her down letting her red shoes tap on the wooden floor. With little effort from him she walks towards the puppeteer and curtsies, he smiles and gives a low bow, she raises her hand and he wraps it in his own. He knows she is looking up at him, her soft eyes meeting his closed eyes. Then in silence they dance. She is no longer the puppet and he is no more the puppeteer. He opens his eyes and looks down at the gentle trusting eyes of the puppet then taking his scissors he snips off the strings and throws her on the fire. “Bloody cold in here.” he says as he opens another box.
I know not strictly poetry but...