The Toymaker

I imagine the Toymaker’s smile as he sews my threadbare garments,
My wooden arms and legs hang lose,
Dull,
And clanking.

I imagine lips upturned while a needle is passed through my skin,
My skin of silken niceties,
Dull
And unoriginal.

I see through sewn button eyes a man who is not lonely
But who is alone,
And free,
And entirely new.

I have never felt a thing,
Not a texture or the warmth of Summer sun,
Not a feeling of security,
Nor a feeling of numb.

The Toymaker is closing up my seams,
He is tying up my strings,
Enclosing a music box that seldom sings,
His dry cracking hands I do not feel.

With a life on a mantelpiece not far ahead
A smile is sewn upon my face with thread
A tantalizing grin in red
With a sting I will never feel.

And soon my Toymaker sets me down
Upon his face is sewn a frown
Dreamily he is left empty
Having created a soul,
So dull.