poetry

The Puppet Maker

I am a woman
Made of wood;
Paint and carve,
And chip away.
Pretend you made me
But, I was always alive.
Make me a mouth
So I can give you back
Your little words,
Oh, Creator,
Consumed by madness.
My god without eyes

Look and see:
It fits,
It fits.

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2 thoughts on “The Puppet Maker

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