There’s a girl with a purple complexion,
Black eyes and stark white pupils.
Blue and white feathers atop her head.
She resides in the dimension within brown sky
In which the teal galaxy collapses star by star.
It unravels, atom by atom, forcibly ripped apart.
By a creator so elusive even the dead are ignorant.
The puppeteer left Pinocchio to rot and decay.
Salt water travels down his wood-carved face.
The girl cries along with the soulless rib of tree.
She introduces Lord Pathos to his hard knock heart.
“Neither ethos, nor pathos can decipher this knot.”
Only father time has the power to dismantle the rope.
Her fingers grow weak, maneuver until they break.
Time arrives late; the moss and fungus return home.
There is nothing less tragic; than the death of a puppet.