A pantomime stage, two dolls up in it, and an audience singing their tale
One was made of oak, the other was simple yeast bound together
They both performed until the fall of the veil
Their strings, formed by heather
Tales of war, tales of love, even some of mystery and self-love
From frantic music to the echoes of somber lullabies, they dance and paint
Their identities are given by their play. They are but blank canvases for people's to shove
Until de curtains closed, they remained nothing but quaint
Controlled by the puppetmaster, they move close to each other
Unable to smile or make sound, they feel emotionless
A little red crayon in their hands. The only way they would rather
Sliding it to the rhythm, it is not the work of their heart, but an illusion maintained motionless
Play after play, years and years had come to pass
The puppetmaster stood still for a moment and asked himself life itself
It brought up their old boxes. Boxes rotten by age; creating a crevasse
They were put back. After a lifetime of being bound by strings, now unbound in a shelf
Another story happens while they are confined. A story for another page
The dolls begin to open their boxes
They have but one objective. To return to their life, their stage
In sync with one another, they make ropes and bridges of the skins and strings of foxes
At the rendezvous point, a surprise awaits
Meanwhile, a big bad cat guards the room from which they want to escape
The play is ready, the tools at hand. The villain is set and music dictates the fates
It begins with a simple angerment. A little crayon slipped off of a hand and hit the cat in its cape
A wild skirmish. Other, forgotten victims try to pin them down
The cat, a yarn-thirsty beast ready to mangle their bridges
A humorous, action-packed, and dramatic performance. A most epic showdown
The sparks of love flew and ignited the candles. The fire started. Yeast, found in riches
In the end, everything is engulfed and an old door falls open
Two little figures step out of there. One made of burnt oak
The other, a fiery, oil-imbued, burning yeast embracing love wide-open
Both stand center stage to perform one last time. A dream up in smoke
They say that the strings burned out, releasing them from fate and pain
Some say they still perform on top of a rotting, wooden old stage
Their diamond-encrusted outfits reflect their inner fire. Unquenchable, even by rain
True love. Even backstage
One, a drenched harlequin with a water-resistant, oily painted smile
The other, a never-extinguishing, fire-engulfed yeast harlequin
Dancing to the music of their heartbeats, to the tempo of every pianos' tile
Sometimes, a somber requiem for their fallen kin
YOU ARE READING
Memory Fragments
FantasyWARNING: CONTAINS VERY EXPLICIT CONTENT. Sooner or later, we all crumble beneath our fears. It's up to us to recall what makes us human and stand strong against adversity. Memories, shattered and scattered throughout our lives, come to us one by one.
