The chain is bent
Smaller and at an
Odd angle. water absconds
Its true shape.
Toes are bent at
Impossible angles
Peeping like heads
From the surface.
Bubbles on recognizance
Missions rise from
Legs straight out,
Almost buoyant,
Like a puppet; a marionette
String slackened body
In a dirty porcelain frame.
Slumped over from
Years of bad posturing
In rebellion as an
Impetuous child.
Seeking an exit route
Through an autumn
Cornfield maze that
Winds around against
An orange sky.
Masks contoured to faces
Popping out from
Impossible angles,
Ambushing the seeker
Into tearing through the
Bogus maze wall revealing
A building without
The structural supports
Necessary collapses on
Its already calumnous
Foundation that has
Been eroded by termites
And incessant weather.
Strings are pulled
And the stone grey
Body arises only to
Be crushed by the
Onslaught of steel
Girders, concrete and glass.
