The battlefield is a pasture, a desert, an Escher-esque catacomb of cosmic proportion...
It is a scribble, a stick body
With a hollow circle head...
It is a block of Earth, creating life with the dead.

Ink is the blood running; scattering non-uniformly
Across symmetrical horizons
And vertical skewed faces,
Asking for the emotion you're feeling.

A loaded glue gun fires
Building muscle and cartilage
Sealing wooden bones and providing the foundation
Of an artist born...
Hair of yarn
Marbled tooth and nail
Skin of clay.

I am a weapon...
A heart of paper folds and a mind untold
Written in BOLD.