Painted little mannequin
Knows not of her fate
Not the faintest idea
Of the sorrow that awaits
Standing like a figurine
In deeply anxious state
About to have the smirk struck from her powder white face
As a thousand bitter deaths I thence precipitate

 

Exposed in the front window for everyone to see
With no other choice to make but to look on vacantly
Detachable limbs in a pile at her pale feet
Star-crossed exhibit that is she

 

Beneath her many fashions
Lies a colorless false effigy
Deluded that immortal curse
Constitutes as pedigree
Alluding things can get no worse
When she really ought to learn
What has been planned for her next centenary

 

No blood to spill or teardrops to divulge
Frozen in a catwalk pose
No active voice box to indulge
Hid beneath her vacant prose
Innovation’s bloody nose
Stagnant little verses
Fashioned solely to repulse
Unaware of castigated pulse

 

Painted little mannequin
Knows not how to escape
This spastic plastic albatross
Amounts to mere dead weight
Relinquished before her very own company of wolves
In a deeply panicked state
Too early seen unknown
And known too late

 

Regrettably, the killing time is nigh
And that means disassembly
She walked a line she shouldn’t have
Orchestrated her own entropy
The one thing which is random
Is the endless sea of ways to dispose of each limb independently
Mess with me and you mess with the royal we
We frown upon false idols
Rain down tidal upon fake stiffs with dirty little elbows and knees

 

Painted little mannequin
Feel free to do just as you please
Trapped beneath our one-way mirror
Polluted eyes they can not see
Listen in intently
And you may discern the faintest creep
Now it is the time dear
To spoil within the charmless harvest that you chose to reap
This sightless pain be thine for endless centuries to keep

 

 

 

 

 

Richard Charles Stevens

 

Keeper of The Crimson Quill

 

 

 

 

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