The Mannequin

Far beneath the green canopy
tangles of roots encase the wooden
mannequin who once played the violin.
He stares at the sky and wishes to be a cloud.

His words were honey that dripped
from his beautifully fashioned tongue.
Now all remains of his soothing speech
are crusty remnants, void of sweetness.

The animals crawl all along his lanky figure.
They whisper secrets in their passing, for
they know their words are safe in the mannequin.
All he can do is gaze into the sun wishing for fire.

If the world had wanted his songs
his fate may have been the dreams that
congregated in his hollow wooden skull.
Instead his mind is dimming like a candle.

In the shadows of his thoughts small beasts tread.
Entering through his ears and sleeping in the warmth
of his cognizance are the smallest children of the trees.
They still believe in his voice, and howl for him at night.

The mannequin has pretended to be human
for long enough; his fakeness is too apparent.
Sometimes the world recycles such individuals.
We are only real when we are serving purpose.