Pinocchio Is Old
The wood is too seasoned, the grain hoary.
the moppet has grown insane,
its wood now riddled with timeless lies.
A cat in a dark corner will not look at it.
Mice cower under its grim shadow.
In a twilit kitchen an old man mumbles
as he gums a boiled egg
while deranged eyes peer through walls.
Pinocchio is old,
he has been set on a hook.
fibrous sinews dangle
from his notched frame.
knotted veins grind together
inside the oaken cage of his chest.
Made to imitate and deceive
he has become what we dare not look upon:
a hollowness within a dead core.
In the potbellied stove,
logs pray with crackling flames
hope to never become that thing
that hangs and glares,
a wood wormed ruination,
its painted adolescence flaking now
to a crackbrained fantoccini
gone feral.
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