Geppetto’s Folly

The very thought

Of how a scalpel might carve out your face

And whittle you into existence

I cave a little

I give

I waffle

I crumble in the wait

My deepest apologies

For this lack

For this straw spine that would stand in wheat fields

Waiting

Waiting for the work to be done

Aging slowly

Time ticking

Work seeping with dreams

Work ringing me out like a sponge of wishes

Become real.

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