A Fairy-tale

Trapped in a union between his wooden

limbs, sitting in his dressing room, a

puppet on a string. Playing a magnetic

music box, endless and old, bringing

back distant memories, from within the

cold. Remembering in a flood of clapping

hands and cushioned seats, the warming

blushing air rising to kiss apple cheeks.

His figure fading into dimming courage

hanging on a shelf where he does dwell,

his life passing by in the outside of tolling

clock bells. Lost in an empty space, a

guest of hollow halls, still dreaming of a

fairy-tale coming to softly call.