In many cases, they are a gift . . . of torment.
Soulless eyes just staring back.
Empty.
Hollow.
Cheerful with wickedness.
It’s not life playing a trick, hearing that box creak to life, its real and coming!
Outer coated in maple or cedar, painted to look lovely to seer.
Lies, they are all.
A sign of entertainment, only in hell maybe . . . no unquestionably in hell.
Even bouncing, rainbow pasted comics have their limits!
So bright.
So colorful.
So sinter.
Cover them in oil and burn them!
They are not needed.
No filament to hold, just brittle with microbe, eating away at them.
As hollow as they smile.
In many forms, mocking the humane.
They must be gone from this world.
Become the firewood they know they are.
Burn them.
Burn them!
In ashes they will be!
They’ll only be entertainment for the damnation of this world far from ours.
Joy they will never bring.
Never!
These things, crooked like hangmen of none breathers.
Forever plaster with one emotion to give.
As they rot away.
Even someone dares to use their body as one, removal with a saw of it, is the only way.
Their wide eyes can’t fool everyone.
Only time, these will be gone, and seen as world’s bread and butter.
Will be gone.
Just like that!
Blast to ashes, burn them!
Automatonophobia
Ventriloquist’s Dummies
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