Living life on a string,
I sat on the shelf above the wood carvers bench.
I stare out the window as a shooting star fades into the night sky,
It flies away, it has no strings, unlike me.
I was a popular toy,
The woodcarvers favourite in fact,
he would always show me off to the boys and girls,
a tap of the foot, a tip of the hat, the usual evening act.
He doesn’t play with me anymore,
He hasn’t for a very long time.
He’s been under the covers of his bed,
I’m afraid he’ll never wake up.
The room is often dark, damp and very cold,
The wood of my body is starting to splinter and mould.
A rotten stench fills the room and floods my nose,
A vase is filled with rancid water and a single, wilted rose.
I try to move but my body is as stiff as a board.
I try to call for help but my mouth does not open.
The paint that was once my eyes has faded away,
Blinding me in one eye, but I can still almost see the sky.
The speckles in the dark,
The stars in the great abyss,
What secrets do they hold,
Are they like me, do they got old, do they have strings like me?
The question bounces around my empty shell.
Another blink, a flash of light,
Pierces the sky with its mighty flight.
Followed by another, and another, and another
And another…
The sky filled with beams of light,
Stars travelling freely through the night,
No strings to hold them back.
A creak, a crack, and a fall.
The shelf had finally succumbed to the rot,
And with its contents, I begin my descent,
The cold dark floor below me making its approach.
Fear should have gripped me,
But instead, a warmth filled its place.
Is this how the stars feel when they fall from the sky?
It feels almost… peaceful.
I feel for the first time in a long time,
Like I can smile.
Falling with the stars,
I can’t help but feel happy.
There are no strings on me…
I am free…
Here I present a rather dark version of Pinocchio
