Image by Jean Wemmerlin @unsplash

They put him in an empty chair
As blank as his eyes
The studied wooden smile
Peeled slivers
Red and dripping
From hands that stayed cold
Upon the switch.

Ghosts of strangers
Pale and long
Scratched at the glass
Like cats for milk
They craved his gaze;
Shuffling hair, straightening neckties
So theirs could be the faces
He last sees.

While gloved fingers thrust
Rubber in his mouth
So death could swallow his scream
And not escape to haunt those
Who broke the stainless nip
Upon some pages
In a file, soon to be laid upon a pile
That stated his particulars
And the supposed crime
He agreed to

He sat like a king upon a throne
The helmet far too small
For his frame
He let it sit
As a visor
Of some knight from a game
How was he to know
This was no story being told
That his hands were being tied
So he could not hold
Any secrets in his hide
Which may spill
Once the deed was done
And justice restored
Just for fun.

The pale hand moved
Lights flickered and wailed
Tiny feet gasped to run
But fluttered and failed
The puppeteer has left
This marionette alone
Never to move again
On its own.

Glass hands closed in faith
Mirror lips moved in prayer
For the balance restored
True and fair
Unaware as ever
These fixers of frames
That many men in this lifetime
Can carry one name

Author: TheHumanAnvil

I find poetry as a gentle reminder, a medium to relay and dwell upon all things considerate people find inconsiderate. Poetry as an art is akin to a lamp or a magnifying glass. It trails volumes of meaning behind obscure, vague words. I have been writing for a time now, and intend to do so for the time to come. And hopefully, hopefully, hope that one day, someday, a person stumbling across this veil of words, find it alluring enough to shift aside the curtain and peer, into the eyes of the naked truth which sways with the wind of reason. If you have any thoughts, it would be my pleasure to know them, if you don't then it would be a pleasure to not. Be my guest. This feast of words is for you.

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