The Outcast at the Marionette Theatre

Heavy cast iron limbs, rusted joints and chains instead of strings.
Why is everyone around me made of the finest oak?
They are nimble, blithe and put on an elegant show, the crowd cheer.
I am clumsy, I stumble out onto the stage, the crowd politely claps.

For hours on end they demonstrate the finesse of their design,
how well adjusted they are to this environment, the marionette theatre.
I on the other hand am miscast here and currently unable to leave,
complacency and fear has rusted my confidence and ambition.

It makes me look like I’m bad at my craft, despite my experience,
but they cannot see that inside my mind I am slowly oxidising
and the little holes in my head that are letting bad thoughts in.
They don’t retire me because the Oaks enjoy looking down at me.

I have painted tears on my cheeks which have partially flaked away.
My visage is of a sad harlequin, a lonely fool, once nurtured now lost.
They all look the same, bland, mass produced, at least I’m unique,
I do secretly want to be accepted by the wood puppets sometimes.

I have no lines, I take my place in the background of the scene,
never will I be cast in the leading role, I wasn’t made that way.
I am an extra, in the shadows cast by the Oaks from the spotlights.
I wish this play was more interesting than it is, we can all agree on that.

At least at night, when the crowds have left I get put back in my box.
I have filled it with beautiful pictures and trinkets I have found.
My love lives here with me, he is also made of metal instead of oak.
He is always here for me when the play is over for the day.

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