A Trick of the Light

The little wooden boy
has cherry-red cheeks
and a lick of black paint
swirling on his brow.

He’s smiling now,
but it’s a trick
of the light…

he’s dead inside,
a hollow imitation
of some forgotten child.

Meeting him
is like finding an odd shell,
half-buried on the beach.

You dig it out
and realize that
there is no one home,
and the occupant
may have checked out
one million years ago,
or more.

Much like an empty conch
speaks for the sea…

Words are exhalations,
and if it’s cold enough,
they freeze,
crystallization
making
patterns that seem
intentional,

but

it’s entropy’s magic,
summoned from some
uncanny valley…
where little wooden boys roam,
kicking shells,
and humming their
random, entropic
songs.

I wonder
if I was ever real
at all.

©️ Obol, 2020.