Stiff,
Only the window as a guide to the outside world,
Uncertain but there as it is . . .
Legs angled,
Enough to graze the cool glass,
Frozen palm is within inches of touching.
Eyes painted inviting colors,
Drawing others near,
A show that plays twenty hours,
Day after day . . .
A smile,
Fair and close to a frown if saw in bad light.
Wordless tunes fill the air,
Echoing off the glass,
Slapping back to its source just as quickly . . .
The sun strikes down,
Melting almost,
Just as the moon congeals mist floats.
Clothes before ripped away and changed,
Over and over,
As the year passes onto the next,
No further say if another voice can speak.
Does little matter on this,
For the window is all one knows.
Busy streets buzzing,
Cars zooming,
People march and snake about,
A world that holds beyond,
What this glass really holds.
Whatever it is,
Is a secret it will remain as thus!
Fear already comes,
That this place will be gone,
Leaving all what is in left behind.
The chance of going out pass,
The glass,
It is forever a memory for those within,
And the workers threaten to never leave.
For the world can’t know of them,
Nor the molded dummies that bare the clothes,
Of blood,
Sweat,
And tears,
For no one wants to become the next dummy,
In this domicile of expand.
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