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.