The Truth Set Free
The woodcarver made toys.
But no one wanted hand crafted things anymore.
They only wanted imported goods from far away places..
The winter was cold.
The mattress lay on the floor, the fame burned.
The table and chairs consumed by fire.
He salvaged his few books, and one
Three legged stool - the shelves long since bare and
Gone to ash... he had saved his beloved puppet for last.
Did it matter if he untied the strings?
He chose to bind the eyes shut so they would not see.
And with his tool scraped off the painted mouth...
He so hoped he couldn’t hear
The echos in the imagined death throes
Of the screams... as his tears streamed...
Down his craggy old face that he
Would bury in his pillow one last time
As he lay broken hearted.
©JP/davh
startling and sad! I was carried along by the rhythm of your words...
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