You are a papier-mache
with distorted silhouette,
dancing along
the crowd of broken marionettes...
stitching the edges
of this wrinkled world
like never-to-fit puzzles.

Button eyes,
fake laurel crown,
creased skin,
crumpled rug cling
to your limp shoulders
coating your flaws.
You're a breathing doll
made of pulped paper.
nothing else.

But you unravel
the faults on the crust,
scrutinize helium,
recount sky snow *****
over your head.

While all broken things
laugh and mock...
you come around
to fix them.



For what?



Your chapped lips
whisper...



for POETRY.