deepundergroundpoetry.com
On watching animated films on a strange and silent afternoon
I am looking at Pinocchio fold
into piles of pine. Watching
the joints slide backwards
until the lie takes over
and gravity becomes a cold bed
in which to lay the bones down.
I think of my own body
splintering in what can’t be seen.
How this day comes and there
is nothing, but a dark whale
and the tenacity to escape.
Did anybody tell him
years later, in his trauma,
that it is better to be made of wood
than to eternally be made of stone.
I am looking at Pinocchio fold
into piles of pine. Watching
the chaotic needles collapse
into jagged nests of fear,
and I wonder how many hearts
have heard the talk, followed
those footsteps in the crowd
and dreamed of being real
in some world
some form.
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