Distraught and tainted, silver stained.
Gradient that trickles in.
Foil wrapped and feathers stacked
Atop the stoic mannequin.

A box of bows and arrows slung.
Wood chips lodged in blood and sweat.
A pinstriped hat cocked neatly down
And shadows deemed immaculate.

Dim the lights a fraction more;
An exit sign so furtive shines.
Lock the ropes from door to door
And keep an eye on brother Time.

Crop his neck and tilt his wrist.
Bloodshot eyes in union lay
A pipe upon his fingertips
And arch his ardent vertebrae.

The jay sings thrice, as workers wane,
Consigning to a dollars hope.
The slings of footsteps blundering
And courtship of the severed ropes.

Impatience breaks the query line;
Impaling through the tended gate.
A million flock to stare and gawk
As urban chaos resonates.

Floorboards thunder from the treads
As lights diffuse and oscillate.
The tenants sob in beauty torn,
As artist hands so fevered shake.

The owner weeps himself to sleep,
The maid removes her ashen robe.
The architect, out of respect,
Removes the name inscribed in stone.

And He
Stands nigh vehement light,
That Wood Pipe between lips of sin.
And everybody wonders... Why?...
So stoic
O’ ye Mannequin?
 
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