Dollmaker
This poem is not is not part of the series that I mentioned before, not from anyone else’s persona but my own.
Dollmaker
Dollmaker, Dollmaker, man sans spirit/with your empty crown and empty heart/and an eye only towards those who part/while delighting in those who fear it.
You set their eyes towards the stars/as you hold the knife behind your robes/coated with blood of previous lobes/now unstrung like a useless guitar.
Blackened strings woven through their eyes/coarsened strands to strangle perception/a tightened vise to quench conception/a tortured treatment of that which pries.
Beautiful voices you raise in praise/passing through a little golden box/the key to which you keep in your frocks/to silence any voice gath’ring ‘nays.’
You stuff them full of falsehoods and lies/masking them with pretty clothes of white/soon becoming marked black with blight/from the corruption and inward cries.
Men are not dolls for play, Dollmaker/but beings worthy of their freedoms/rulers of their own kingdoms/in the heavens or on the earth.
Your ethereal stitches won’t hold us/as we buck against eternity/snapping wires with celerity/and wiping off your corrupting pus.
You are nothing without your dolls./Dollmaker, you relish puppet’s strings/but when they leave for better things/you stand there with pitiful calls.
So go and play with your mindless toys/while I enjoy the world without/I’ll speak to others what you’re about/and bring them to higher joys.
