There you are now
like a photograph of some
Cheaply staged lie,
a big nothing that pulls
at the strings of fear and forces
the cavorting of a merry
dance - long forgotten.

The marionette half sunk,
and yet still hopeful that the
isn’t permanent.

The gentle carving of the knife
peels back thin layers
but in the art of artists’ perfection
you whittled for
far too long, stroked the blade far
too fine and far too frequent.
The morals not polished enough and
now yours are rusted too.

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