I often think,
We are bundles of hay,
Fashioned by unseen hand,
By stitch and Hessian jute,
Into vaguely living things,
Soulless effigies,
Voodoo dolls,
With vacant button eyes,

Existence is a witch,
And she casts spells through us,
To create breath through herb and cloth,
It’s a curious form of magic,
Unpredictable yet sympathetic,
She often pierces us with crooked pins,
But it draws no blood,
For we are but poppets.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s