STILL LIFE
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.
https://i.guim.co.uk/img/static/sys-images/BOOKS/Pix/pictures/2012/11/19/1353321352912/Marionette-010.jpg?w=700&q=55&auto=format&usm=12&fit=max&s=e3933142b9971b9bd412c19bbe93e04a
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