Marionette

Drunk on the savour of the nightly bloom, I’m drawn deep into the settling fog. I don’t know where I am or how far I’ve strayed, but midnight feels farther than dawn.

The wind has hummed itself to sleep, leaving an awkward silence in its wake. Now it’s just the echo of my hollow footsteps and the sweet scent of October in the air. Shattered blades of moonlight stab through the crevices in the clouds. As I walk through its dappled light, I fade in and out of existence, before a sudden flash of lightning carves right through my tepid daze. 

But I do not bleed.

My wooden flesh does not grow weary. Maybe my nerves of string are too tangled to tell. My blood once knew its way through the valleys of my skin, but now, it’s frozen still.

Why can’t I burn at the gentlest kiss of light, in a million shades of amber like the autumn rain? Or blossom like these Alstonias, to greet every dull eve with ethereal grace? Will I ever be unwary as their flowers, surrendering to the will of every soft-spoken breeze? Or be brave enough to lay bare my bones, like the leaves that rot beneath my feet?

As these questions burrow into me, I bury them in shallow graves. Their sleepless spirits can visit every once in a while, to give my soul the fight it craves.  Because if I stop to search for answers now, I’ll come undone and fall to pieces. To be a little more than a heap of wood and string is why this marionette keeps on steadily marching.