You held my songbird in your wooden hands
Snapped its fragile neck with a subtle twist of your
Wicked, gnarled fingers; then you gave it back to me
The tiny still-warm corpse of my dead bird
A sardonic offering of peace.

I can look through the windows in the ceiling
And see the bottom of your soul
Staring back at me with lifeless eyes
Wooden fingers. So durable, so unbendable
So unbreaking in your disregard and your disbelief.

Why have you whispered words of hope
With intent to slay me, to drive a pointed blade
Through my throbbing heart
Pull back your golden shroud that illuminates
The warm, artificial darkness.

Wooden idol hands carved from lifeless material
Clutch lifeless roses and lilies of the field
The creator long dead, wipsed away like a waking dream
No one remembers the glory
Because there is no one to forget.

Los dedos de madera. Like mother, father, offspring
Continuation in a circle without edges.
Cannot escape your grasping, brittle fingers. So fragile and aging.
Decay begins without remedy or cure.
A little paint, a little gilding, a little folding of the hands for slumber.

We stumble on alone in patient silence
And we awake to the silent dead
The sun rising to the dawn of the apocalypse,
Glorious bright hope of starting over from nothing
But rusted chisel and virgin wood.

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