You could have carved me yourself
Out of pine. Sanded me down and
Refined me, veneered with a honey varnish,
Burnished me to perfection
Linked each limb with metal
Cartilage, and thread your strings
In, masterfully, like manipulating
Or conditioning a selfhood.
It is the dancing of your fingers
That gives me life, that suggests
To me left or right, right or wrong,
Fall or rise.
Only by your touch, and only
In your sight. I cannot be
Relied upon to operate myself,
To entertain as is my role.
Here I tremble, here I try to
Stand, robed in your attire,
Speaking in your voice,
Mimicking your grace, pining
For your straight-forwardness,
Your tremulous heart. For mine
Beats dull, in a self that is sculpted.
The knock of wood is heard, nightly.
If you've any comments about this poem, P.Viktor would be
pleased to hear from you.