You’re a still life,
Not my real life.
A puppet core pumping in a puppet corpus;
Yet this marionette
Loves the moves her mover makes . . .
Approves the tones her maker takes.
An idyll, pretty as a picture,
Perfect and pure—
Please play in my silent theater
This way, my way.
Realness corrodes, crumbles and fumbles;
Grime mars gray days,
Time chars each fraying page;
Let’s touch and taste in immaculate places.
Stay, my still life—stay.