stuff the puppet with flesh,

heat the wax till it begins to glow

and drip down this narrow drain

flowing from north to west, continues

it’s way down into the core

of the earth where it solidifies,

takes shape, the mad man laughs at

the news printed over and over again

when money exchanges hands

because the face is all there is

for the drips, the flow, the wayward down

can all be retold with a narrative

more colorful than the last,

where all it takes is more convincing

like the last time,

that secret, that stolen good, that

fast cash, adrenaline rush, what a high

no dissipating even when life ebbs

away, flowing down to the core

of this black rotten heart.

don’t you see?

don’t you hear?

don’t you sense?

of course not, for the dripping

downwards is part of the amusement

when death is just another lie

and immortals are made, from flesh

that rots, the puppet no longer

moves when strings are pulled

when the core has been forged

a wonder, a face, a heart

that mirrored the life once lived.