The Figurine

Not exactly a doll, nor a puppet,
But close, close to both, her painted face peered

Up at a peculiar angle from the knees
Of her maker. Her hair was glossy brown

Paint on a bulb of papier-mâché head,
Nose long as an English aristocrat's,

Eyes cornflower blue, expression solemn,
Body all stitched cloth and cotton batting.

One who was near to as emotively
Unalive and mutely severe himself

Pondered his projection of persona
On this bit of stringless marionette

Made by another person than himself
For a purpose uncertain to either.

A personality turned and twisted,
Hanging a bodiless thought in the air,

A kind of invisible, silent ghost
Composed of nothing but composition.

All he held dear was suspended between
Whatever was real, whatever real feared.