  Marionnette-fanatic, Your active club within this riot Was once the passive integrity Of a branch upon a tree. Now without success It tries to beat out fire Writhing in human skulls. The pause of nature, transformed Survival of every memory and defeat, Separates to bits of action Aiding an inexplicable fever. The hands of centuries press These bits into another Pause before corruption. O pernicious circle, I will not believe That your parsimonious farce Reiterates itself through space. The souls of men achieve An accidental dream That seems important merely Because the figures which it holds Have invented small and almost Non-existent divisions of time. Yet, trapped within these months and years, I turn to you, marionnette-fanatic. You at least can bring Diversion to my chained Impatience as I wait for death. How wildly you protect The sluggish minds of men! A calculating laziness of thought Has created you to guard its doors, An outward expression of peace Beneath which the inner struggle Can revel in privacy. And so, with buttons of brass And blue uniform that lend An incongruous dignity To your task, you defend The myriads of insincerities That drape a mutilated need. And yet, unconsciously, And at rare times you save The face of beauty from an old Insult in the fists of men. Yes, you are not entirely Without extenuation, Marionnette-fanatic. |
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