a broken marionette.

he saw it.

the delicate bent of its wrist
conveyed more to him, even in
its stillness, than all the motion
of the universe.

it seemed to hold its fingers taut
at delicate dissonance with each other they were
extending.

but the wrist, again, was broken
and in contrast with the fingers
revealed a certain despair, or
apathy, or sadness.

and this was truth.
he felt it
felt its resonance in him
it was a frozen and dead gesture
a sign from god, when he
didn't believe in god.

the contrast he felt
in common with it: a reach
believing most profoundly
that it would not
would never
arrive.