Farewell Geppetto

The old man hardly dents the bed;

chest sinks into a sea-green song's depths.

The candle light flickers, casts shadows

upon the ceiling and wall as if friends

have gathered. The middle of the night

meets the dawn with a fork –

fool's choice offered at the last.

Pinocchio holds the withered hand

that once gently held him; strokes

the knuckles and nails, feels pain as his wood

atomically realigns into flesh - regrets

choices made along the way.

Strings force steps

but at least they offer

an uncomplicated path

'Existence is easy as a tree

or a log to be burnt,' he whispers at three

in the morning. The old man's chest

creaks like an old galley ship

then moves no more.

Pinocchio knows no prayers to say over the body

cannot see the spirit leave the flesh, feels

tears slide down cheeks that once sprouted leaves

instead; cries into the dark 'Geppetto is dead!

Now I understand what it is to be alive,

Geppetto is dead!’ His toes wriggle

to break past the floorboards

and enter the earth – seek sustenance

in a connection to everything abandoned.